The Wind and the Rain
by Bad Octopus
Summary: When Lt. Nellie Malone went to Korea to be closer to her younger brother, she didn't expect to find a kindred spirit. Charles Winchester didn't expect to have his prayers answered. Then again, the war worked in mysterious ways. UPDATE: Chapter 30
1. Lemmings Must Be Directed

A/N: Hello, fellow _M*A*S*H_ fans! I've put this off quite long enough, so I've finally decided to dive into the fantastic and under-appreciated realm of _M*A*S*H_ fanfiction. If I may say so, we're a small school of fish in a sea of Harry Potter and Pirates of the Caribbean stories. Not that I have anything against either, but... what do they have that _M*A*S*H_ doesn't? An endless flood of merchandise, I guess. Personally, I think _M*A*S*H_ is one of the best things that happened to pop culture, so I thought I'd make my own small contribution by supporting _M*A*S*H_-fics. I hope you like it.

Disclaimer: I think it's pretty clear I don't own _M*A*S*H_. I defer to the geniuses who created it.

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The Wind and the Rain

Chapter One: Lemmings Must Be Directed

"`Mercy on me!' quoth she, `what is the meaning of this, husband? You look as though you had come all the way on foot, and tired off your legs too! Why, you come liker a shark than a governor.'"

Robert Malone listened, a half-smile on his face, as he watched his daughter read aloud from the battered copy of _Don Quixote de la Mancha_, her brow furrowing in concentration as she tried to make out the words in the dim light of the hospital lamp. The girl — _young woman_, he had to remind himself — sat perched on the edge of his bed, her unruly red hair tucked behind her ears. She paused in her reading periodically to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose. It was times like this, when Fenella came to read to him at the Neurology department of the Good Samaritan Hospital, that his condition bothered him the least. Her presence made it easier to imagine he was back in his Portland home, and the sound of her low, pleasant, mellow voice soothed him like nothing else.

"`Mum, Teresa,' quoth Sancho;" she continued, "`it is not all gold that glisters; and every man was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth. First let us go home, and then I will tell thee wonders. I have taken care of the main chance. Money I have, and I came honestly by it, without wronging anybody.'" Fenella paused again to clear her throat.

"Why don't we stop there for tonight, Nellie?" Robert suggested, taking note of her discomfort. "It sounds like your voice is getting tired."

She shook her head, ginger curls flying in every direction. "I'm fine, Dad," she insisted, "I can keep going a little longer."

He smiled. "Well, let's stop anyway for now. The truth is, I'm getting a little tired myself. I just wanted you to think I was being magnanimous."

Nellie laughed at this. "All right, you win," she replied, marking her place and setting the book on the bedside table. She picked up her glass of water and took a sip. "And now, the inevitable: how are you feeling?" Robert sighed in exasperation. "You knew it was coming, Dad."

"I know, I know." It frustrated him nonetheless. Every day he found it more and more difficult to hide his symptoms from his daughter, as well as his thirteen-year-old son Daniel. He would regularly insist that he felt fine, but this never seemed to work. The pair of them were as sharp as tacks, and every miniscule twinge or contraction of his facial muscles alerted them to his deterioration far more effectively than his protests ever could. It certainly didn't help that Nellie was enrolled in nursing school, and was becoming far too observant for his liking. If the blasted kids knew what was good for them, they would choose to believe his gentle lies. It would spare them a lot of pain in the end.

If they weren't going to give up, then he wasn't either. "I feel pretty good today, actually."

His daughter looked at him critically through her cat-eye glasses. "Is that so?" she said, her voice deceptively neutral. "Any muscle spasms? Visual problems? Difficulty swallowing?"

God, she was sounding more like a nurse every day. "No, not that I can recall," he fibbed.

"Let me see your eyes." She leaned forward and peered at Robert closely. He felt a bit like a protozoan in a petri dish. "They're a little twitchy," she remarked. "The nystagmus is more pronounced than compared to, say, last week."

"It's probably just because I'm tired," he insisted. "It _is_ pretty late, you know."

"I think it's getting worse. No wonder you can't read anymore." Nellie leaned back, a worried frown on her expressive face. This was different than her trademark mother hen look. She seemed genuinely frightened.

In an instant Robert went into father mode. "Hey, come here, Ginger," he said softly, tugging at her arm. She stretched out alongside him on the narrow hospital bed and nestled her head on his shoulder. She absently fingered a lock of her hair, which she always did when she was upset. For a moment she looked like that skinny little girl who used to scale his big four-poster bed and burrow in between him and his wife during a thunderstorm. He missed those nights.

"Now listen, kid," he told her, lacing his fingers through hers, "I want you to quit worrying, okay? All that book-learnin' is going to your head." Nellie chuckled despite herself. "I know you want to take care of me, but it's making you sick."

She tilted her head back and looked at him incredulously. "_Me _sick? But Dad, _you're_ the one with—"

"Shush. Doesn't matter. I see you in here every day, running yourself ragged to make me comfortable. Mothering me the way you mother Danny." Robert took a deep breath to collect himself. "The fact is, I don't have a whole lot of time left, and I'd prefer it if we didn't spend it worrying. I want us to have fun."

Even with his recent loss of sensation, he was still aware of the dampness which had seeped through his hospital gown to his shoulder. "Dad," Nellie said in a thick tone, so unlike her usual calm, unruffled timbre. "That's just what I do. I worry. I worry about you, I worry about what will happen to Danny when... when you're..." She removed her glasses and wiped at her face furiously.

"I know you do, Nell. But you know something? I don't worry. Not at all. Do you know why?"

She shook her head against him.

He sank his fingers bravely into her hair, knowing they would become hopelessly tangled in the curls. "Because I know you'll be okay. I _know_ it. And I _know_ you'll take good care of Danny, because you always have. Remember when your mother passed? And you got it into your little nine-year-old head that you were going to be Danny's new mother?"

When she laughed, he felt it more than he heard it. "Yeah."

"Well, you were as good as your word. You took care of him, and made sure he was safe, and you were just as big a help to me as your mother would have been." He tried to extricate his fingers from her hair, but his diminished motor functions made it a little problematic. "That's why I'm not worried. You kids will be fine. You'll look after each other."

Nellie sniffed and sat up straight, composing and rearranging herself into the little nurse that she was. "I'll _always_ look after Danny," she said in her firm, even voice which left no room for second-guessing. She set her glasses squarely on her nose. "You can count on me, Dad."

SIX YEARS LATER

The Crissy Annex of the Letterman Army Hospital was mercifully quiet as Second Lieutenant Fenella Malone hurried back and forth, checking on the recovering patients. Although the main hospital took care of the more serious injuries while the Crissy Annex dealt with the convalescents, Nellie knew from experience that the ward could get a little harrowing. Out of all the patients currently recovering there, roughly a quarter of them were battle casualties, fresh from the war in Korea. The mental state of the soldiers varied from melancholy to suicidal and everywhere in between. From the way they spoke about their time on the other side of the world, it didn't sound like a place she'd like to visit any time soon. She quite liked it here in San Francisco. In fact, sometimes she thought she liked it enough to consider making it her permanent residence.

This particular day was pleasantly devoid of emotional outbursts or other such incidents. Earlier that morning, a young private with a broken arm had knocked over his meal tray, but it had been an accident, and nothing at all to get worked up about. Otherwise, it had been a perfect day so far.

Nellie had to wonder how long it would last.

"Nurse?"

One of her patients was weakly waving her over. She shook the cobwebs out of her head and strode over to him, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the tile floor. "What can I do for you, Private?" she asked.

"Could I get some more of that applesauce?" the young man said, staring up at her with beseeching blue eyes. She mentally went through the list of things she knew about him. Private Peterson. Recently returned from Korea. Grew up in North Carolina. Had about six dozen girlfriends. Looking at those baby blues, she knew why.

"Hmm, I'll have to deliberate on your request, Peterson," she said, her tone and posture very formal. "You have already ingested your allotment for the day, after all. If you take more than your share, then some other unfortunate soldier may not get any. How would you feel then, Private?"

"Crushed, Nellie. Just crushed." He grinned. "Now can I have some?"

She smiled and shook her head, feeling her glasses slip down her nose. "Your lack of compassion is appalling," she told him, pushing them back up with her index finger. "I'll see what I can do."

"You're a peach, Nellie," he called after her. She simply sighed, reflecting on how soft she had gotten. More and more often, she found she had to check herself because she had a tendency to mother the younger convalescents. She knew exactly why. She had Big Sister Syndrome. And with her nineteen-year-old brother having recently been drafted, her protectiveness was worse than ever.

She made her way to the cafeteria, hoping they had some applesauce left over from lunch. The food at the Letterman Army Hospital was pretty lousy, but from what some of the soldiers had told her, it was haute cuisine in comparison to the rehydrated slop they gave to the poor kids in Korea. Yet another reason to stay in foggy San Francisco.

To her relief, there was plenty of applesauce to go around. Nellie picked up a cup in one hand and a banana for herself in the other, and made her way back to the recovery ward. Suddenly she heard someone calling her name. She turned to see a harried-looking clerk running toward her.

"Lieutenant Malone? Lieutenant Fen... Fenilla..."

Nellie sighed. "Fenella," she said as he skidded to a halt in front of her. "That's me. What is it?"

"Sorry I've gotten behind on the mail delivery, ma'am, I've been really busy," he said apologetically. "There's a letter for you."

She took the envelope from his hand, recognizing the handwriting and the Fort Worth postmark immediately. "It's from my brother! Thank you, Corporal."

Shifting the banana to her other hand, she momentarily juggled two forms of fruit as she tucked the letter into the pocket of her nurse's uniform. Returning the banana to the original hand, she hurried back to the recovery ward and completed her delivery.

"Your sauced apple, Private," she said briskly, setting the cup on the soldier's food tray.

As Private Peterson thanked her around a spoonful of applesauce, she sat down on the empty bed beside him and furiously tore open the letter. As her eyes roved across the page, her heart plummeted in her chest, and the blood drained from her already pale face.

_Oh God, it can't be._

The cursed words stood out on the page as if they had been written in a different color: _Transfer... shipped out... Korea..._

"Damn," she whispered. "Damn, damn, damn."

"Nurse?"

She lifted her head to see Peterson regarding her with concern. "Hey, are you all right, Nellie?"

Dragging a hand through her unmanageable red hair, she shook her head. "It's my brother," she said, feeling oddly enough like she was listening to someone else speak the words. "He's being sent to Korea."

Korea. From whence boys Danny's age came back home in pieces. If they came back at all.

She may never see him again.

Unless...

"I'm real sorry to hear that, Nellie," Peterson was saying sympathetically. "Nellie? Hey, where are you going?"

Barely aware of what she was doing, she found she had already stood up and walked back to the clerk's office. The young corporal looked up from his desk. "Lieutenant Malone, right?" he said, pausing in his paper work. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'd like to request a transfer," she said in a monotone.

"A transfer?" The clerk began rummaging around in his file cabinet for the appropriate forms. "To where?"

Nellie swallowed. "Korea."

* * *

A/N: You saw it coming. Don't try to tell me you didn't. Anyway, I promise you'll see all your old friends in the next chapter. I just wanted to establish my original character in the whole scheme of things: her background, personality, and whatnot. I hope everyone likes her so far. I'm aware that many people are against original characters intruding into their favorite fandoms. But I think as long as they're likable, and not cloyingly sweet or completely bratty, I say why not add some variety? Anyway, enough of my rantings. Hopefully you enjoyed the first chapter enough to stick with it, because I'll have chapter two up soon. And then you'll be reunited with Hawk, Beej, Margaret and the rest of your M*A*S*H-mates. In the meantime, it'd be a lovely gesture to review!

-Octopus


	2. Anywhere You Live Is Home

A/N: One good thing about having the flu — I daresay the _only_ good thing — is that you have plenty of time to write. My thanks to everyone who reviewed my last chapter. I didn't expect many, since the chapter didn't contain any of our beloved _M*A*S*H_ characters. But now the story begins in earnest! And before you start reading, I'd like to issue a warning: all readers seated directly in front of their computers screens _will_ be smothered by Charles's ego.

Disclaimer: Not really needed, but I'll say it anyway. I do not own the 4077th or any of its inhabitants. Anyone you don't remember from the show is my own creation.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Two: Anywhere You Live Is Home

Apart from the choppers, the 4077th MASH was a fairly quiet place. There was the occasional low rolling boom of the shelling, sometimes far off in the distance, and at other times a little close for comfort. And there was no possible way of ignoring the growling sound of the ambulances that came in the late hours, bringing with them a load of wounded soldiers and the promise of a long night in the operating room. But for the most part, the area surrounding the village of Uijeongbu was still and tranquil. Some might even call it peaceful. Charles Winchester was not one of those people.

He would sooner die than admit it to any one of the other residents/inmates of the mobile hospital, but it wasn't the violence and death that Charles detested most about the war — although it was a close second. Nor was it the almost crippling reminder of his own mortality. It wasn't even the utter lack of culture and civility, which made it an unending struggle to keep from being stained by the mire of sleaze in which he found himself.

It was the silence.

Others declared that compared to the noisy hubbub of their lives back in the States, the relative quiet was a welcome change. But Charles found it unnerving, even oppressive. To live in it, day after day, hearing nothing but the buzzing of insects and the chirping of the birds, was pure torture.

In short, the quiet was disquieting. It made him think.

To anyone who knew Charles, who was fiercely proud of his intellect, this would be almost impossible to comprehend. It wasn't as if he didn't enjoy brainwork; he reveled in it. It was being alone with his thoughts that he found intolerable. He knew, when it was only him and the silence, that he would inevitably begin to think about how he came to be there in the first place. He would think about the pointless, bloody war that had taken him from his home, his family, his practice. He would dwell on everything he had left behind, and this cheap, drab, dismal imitation for which he had been forced to trade it all. At times like these, his mind was his worst enemy.

This was one of the primary reasons he found such solace in music. As long as he could lose himself in the heavenly strains of Mozart, Bach, and Schubert, he could forget where he was, if only for a moment, and delight in the sheer sound of beauty. It was his refuge, his sanctuary from himself.

It was also why Pierce and Hunnicutt had to die.

_The cretins_, he thought, frantically rifling through his small collection of treasured belongings with increasingly unsteady hands. _The cruel, debased, shameless little cretins._

He straightened and turned slowly, fists clenched, to face his tentmates, who were currently in the middle of a typically pedestrian and uninteresting game of chess. Neither men took the slightest note of him, which only served to fuel his rage.

"What have you done?" he rasped.

"Well," said Benjamin Franklin Pierce, better known as Hawkeye, as he pointed at the chessboard, "I started with your run-of-the-mill Bird's Opening. Then over here I'm trying my own variation of the Poisoned Pawn, which isn't going to work now that everybody knows about it, thank you very much."

"Yeah, Charles," added his mustachioed opponent, B.J. Hunnicutt. "Way to ruin a perfectly boring chess game."

By now, Charles was accustomed to the inane babble of his fellow surgeons and had learned to tune it out. "My records," he continued in a low, dangerous voice. "They are missing. Every last one of them. I reiterate: what have you done with them?"

Pierce shrugged as he placed a long finger on one of his pieces, then reconsidered and drew it back. "Why do you always assume it was us? Maybe they just got restless and went for a spin."

Charles felt his pulse quicken until it resembled a malfunctioning metronome. "I will give you one last chance," he said very calmly, "after which I will no longer be held responsible for my actions. Now, enough prevarication. I _demand_ to know what you prosimians have done with my music."

"There's no need to get touchy," said Hunnicutt, his eyes wide and guileless. "If anything, you should be flattered. Now the music that's brought you so much pleasure will be enjoyed by everyone else in this camp."

With a strangled noise in his throat, Charles dashed out of the aptly named Swamp and into the compound, his stomach twisting in dread. He looked around in panic, having no clue what to expect, but fearing the worst. Heaven only knew the depths of depravity to which his tentmates were capable of sinking. But if anything had happened to his music... Oh, he would make them pay. He would live _only_ to make them pay.

Somewhere off to his right, he heard laughter. He whirled around to see a group of people gathered around the enlisted's latrine. Swallowing hard, he walked slowly toward the object of their amusement. There, hanging from the tin roof of the latrine, was his entire collection of classical and operatic masterpieces. Hung from varying heights, the records rotated slowly in the autumn breeze, making a decidedly unmusical clattering sound as the edges struck each other. As an added creative touch, strips of surgical gauze had been utilized to string the whole conglomeration together. It was, essentially, a mobile of music. Dangling in front of the latrine.

Charles stood staring at this odd form of artistic expression, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Then, above the laughter, he heard Hunnicutt's signature guffaw, mingled in with Pierce's more strident hyena-like cackle. At that point it was remarkably easy to find his voice.

"You demented _idiots!_" he roared at the surgeons as they clutched at their sides in sheer hysterics. "By God, I certainly hope you've had your little fun, for it will be your _last_, I assure you! Now you _will_ take down these records and restore them, _unharmed_, to their rightful place this _instant_, or I swear by all that is holy, I will hang you imbeciles by the gauze you've stolen to create this... this abomination!"

Without staying to listen to their rejoinder, he stalked away. He had no particular destination in mind and did not care one way or another, as long as it was far from here. He passed Father Mulcahy's tent, and briefly considered rushing in, grabbing the good priest by his clerical collar, and demanding to know why God didn't just strike him with boils and be done with it. That seemed, however, a tad too melodramatic. A Winchester strived always to conduct himself with dignity.

Bringing the incident to the attention of Colonel Sherman Potter would, of course, be an exercise in futility. The 4077th's commanding officer was more of a kindly father figure than a leader. Heaven forbid he should actually have to discipline any of his children, and Pierce and Hunnicutt were two of his darlings. No, if Charles wanted retribution, he would simply have to seek it at his own hands. It shouldn't be terribly difficult, given the calibre of the minds he was up against.

At that moment he heard a frustrated growl, and was surprised to discover that it hadn't come from him. Curiosity temporarily overriding his thoughts of revenge, he attempted to find the source of the sound.

He didn't have to look far, as it happened. Of course, it was Margaret Houlihan.

The platinum blonde major stood in front of her tent, in intense conversation with one of her nurses. From the sound of it, Margaret was either upset with her, or was practicing her Kodiak bear impersonation.

"How could you let this happen!" she was saying, or more accurately, bellowing.

The nurse — Baker, he believed her name was — looked absolutely terrified. "I'm sorry, Major," she said, trying valiantly to keep her voice steady. "It just sort of happened. It's nobody's fault."

"You're pregnant, and it's nobody's _fault?_" Margaret shrieked, causing Charles to wince. "Where do you think babies come from, Baker? The stork?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I haven't done anything wrong," the girl replied, quite bravely, considering the head nurse's eye was starting to twitch. "I am married, after all. Having children comes with the territory."

"Well, not _this_ territory," Margaret said icily. "You're an officer, Baker. You knew the duties you would take on, the responsibilities you would have, when you joined up. You knew there couldn't be any storybook romances and white picket fences when you're halfway across the world, serving your country. But you didn't care. You just had to have it both ways. And now you have to be sent back home, and this hospital has to find another nurse or else try to make do without you. Because of _your_ selfishness, _everyone's_ going to suffer! How's that for 'nobody's fault'?"

Baker's firm lip had begun to quiver during Margaret's tirade, and as Charles watched, her eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Major," she said again, before turning with a sob and dashing headlong for the nurses' tent.

Hands in his pockets, Charles strolled over to join Margaret, clucking his tongue in disapproval. "For shame, Margaret. The poor child has quite enough to vex her, without you springing on her like a tiger. The responsibility of looking after an infant, thousands of miles from its father, comes to mind. I am not overly sentimental, but I find it rather distressing. And I found _you_ rather callous."

Margaret scowled at his sermon. "You're lecturing _me_ about being callous?" she said dubiously. "That's a good one. Who was it, exactly, that hoarded his imported _vichy_ water during the shortage, while the rest of us ripened like imported cheese?"

"Ah," said Charles with a dry smile, "but _I_ have never reduced any young women to tears. Can you honestly say the same?"

She sighed, folding her arms over her chest. After a moment, the pinched expression on her face faded. "I guess I was a little hard on her, wasn't I?" she asked.

"Oh, perhaps a tad," Charles agreed generously.

"But I can't help being angry!" she continued, throwing her hands in the air. "We're already short on nurses as it is! And now that Baker has to be sent back to the States, we'll be dead in the water! We just can't _afford_ to lose her!"

Her voice was beginning to take on that shrill quality which always reminded Charles unpleasantly of a dentist's drill. "Now, remain calm, Margaret," he said, hoping if he behaved rationally, she might follow suit. "The situation isn't nearly as desperate as you seem to think. We shall simply put in a requisition for a transfer from a neighboring unit or some other such place, and then you shall have your replacement nurse. _Voila tout!_ Problem solved."

"Oh, go _tout_ yourself," she said sourly. _So ladylike_, he mused. "Do you have any idea how much of a hassle it is to break in a new nurse? It can take months! And that's assuming our dear falafel-for-brains company clerk would even remember to send the forms!"

Charles suspected a migraine was surely imminent. "One could argue," he replied, "that it would be considerably less of a 'hassle' to instruct a new nurse than to attempt to manage without one."

His logic was, as always, irrefutable. But if Margaret was grateful, she gave no sign. Instead, she acknowledged his sage advice with an irritated grunt and marched off, heading straight for Potter's office, no doubt to do exactly as he had suggested.

"You're quite welcome," Charles muttered to the air in front of him.

Sighing to himself, he trudged across the dusty compound, his head to the ground and fists deep in his pockets. He didn't relish going back to the Swamp, where his tormentors were surely developing another weapon against his sanity. He had no desire to visit the mess tent, as he had no appetite for dysentery. And it was too early for Rosie's or the Officers' Club. There was, he realized, nowhere to go.

_I don't belong here_, he thought, with a pang in his chest.

There was that damned silence again.

And it was then, as he stood alone in the compound on that chill autumn morning, that Charles Emerson Winchester the Third did something he very rarely even thought to do. He decided to pray.

_Dear Lord... If it is indeed Your will that I should remain in this wretched place, far from my home and my loved ones... I ask that You ease the passing of my time here. I don't... especially care how. Only that You send me something... anything, to make my life bearable. That's all I ask._

He paused for a moment in thought. _Something in a beluga caviar would be lovely._

* * *

The jeep bounced along the dirt road, nearly jostling Fenella Malone right out of her seat. In the driver's seat beside her, the young sergeant whose task it was to deliver her safely to her destination did not seem the least affected by the jarring ride. Apparently, it was a happy little jaunt he made on a regular basis, and something she would have no choice but to get used to.

At regular intervals, the soldier pointed to some landmark or feature of interest while yelling something in her direction. Nellie assumed he was trying to be a good tour guide, but the effort was completely wasted on her. Even if the roar of the engine hadn't drowned out most of what he was saying, she still would have been incapable of paying attention.

The flight from San Francisco to Tokyo and the immediate hopper to Seoul had worn her out, but not well enough. Nellie had never been able to sleep on an airplane. There was something about being thousands of miles in the air that, for some strange reason, made it difficult for her to relax. Even after landing in Seoul, there hadn't been much time for her to catch her breath. There had been a babel of activity in which her luggage had been taken from her and piled into a jeep, while she was quickly informed about the MASH unit she would be joining and the type of work she could expect to do there. The next thing she knew, she was speeding along an unpaved road, clutching her seat with one hand and her glasses with the other.

From what Nellie remembered of the too-brief debriefing, the mobile hospital to which she had been assigned was not exactly mobile. In fact, barring only a few temporary relocations, it had been situated in the same place, thirty miles north of Seoul outside a small village called Uijeongbu, ever since the war started. She had been told it was in a mountainous region, and so far the description was proving true. For that matter, the entire province of Gyeonggi looked a lot like the Cascades in the Pacific Northwest. As an Oregonian, she had a special fondness for trees and mountains, and though the trees were different in South Korea, the landscape was still an aching reminder of home.

Another trait shared by Oregon and Gyeonggi was that it was damned cold, at least in the fall. At this point, the bitter wind in her face, along with the bone-rattling ride, were the sole factors contributing to her consciousness.

At length the jeep passed through the little town of Uijeongbu, which consisted of a handful of buildings and a significantly larger amount of huts. As they drove down the only road in the village, a little Korean boy paused in a game of fetch with his dog to wave at them. The sergeant waved back, and Nellie smiled and did the same.

The trees were becoming more sparse now. Without them, the terrain and the hills surrounding it were dun-colored and plain. Oddly enough, they reminded her strongly of camping as a child with her uncle in the hills around Malibu.

At last, the jeep began to slow, and a smattering of canvas tents came into view. "There she is," the sergeant told her. "MASH four-oh-double-seven."

Nellie's first impression was that it was very green. And not the lush, verdant, jewel-like green of the vegetation she had seen earlier. This was Army green. Olive drab, they called it. The tents, the vehicles, the few permanent structures in the compound, were all the same dull, depressing pseudo-green. There was not a speck of personality in the whole place.

And then, as they crunched to a halt, she saw something that lifted her spirits and gave her hope. It was a signpost. The names of several cities were painted on it, each pointing in a different direction.

_Seoul - 34 miles.  
__San Francisco - 5,428.  
__Tokyo - 259.  
__Toledo - 6,133._

Nellie couldn't help but smile. Now _there_ was some personality.

As she half-fell out of the jeep and successfully restrained herself from kissing the mercifully unmoving ground, she saw a figure emerge from one of the buildings and come running toward them. Her eyes widened as she realized the figure was a man in a woman's pink housecoat and a baseball cap. _Oh my_, she thought with a twinge of apprehension, _maybe a little too much personality._

The man skidded to a stop and saluted. "Lieutenant Malone?"

Nellie returned his salute uncertainly. There was no way to discern his rank. "Yes, uh... sir," she decided. "Second Lieutenant Fenella Malone, reporting for... whatever it is I'm here for."

He smiled, his teeth brilliantly white against his olive skin. "No need to call me 'sir', Lieutenant. I am but a lowly corporal. Maxwell Q. Klinger, company clerk, at your service! May I take your bags, ma'am?"

"Oh!" she exclaimed as he commandeered her belongings. "Thank you, Corporal. Do you know," she continued as she tried unsuccessfully to relieve him of some of her luggage, especially the steamer trunk reserved for her books, "where I might find the commanding officer?"

"At this time of day? Probably — no, no, no assistance needed, ma'am — probably the stable. I'll take you to him, right after we get you settled in with the nurses. Right this way, Lieutenant."

Nellie hastily thanked her driver before hurrying off after the corporal. _Klinger, was it?_ He wasn't much taller than she was, and his dark complexion and prominent hooked nose suggested he was of Middle Eastern descent. He was certainly an odd sight in this nondescript military setting, but there was something friendly and unassuming in his toothy grin that put her at ease. At the very least, the effort to keep up with him had given her a burst of energy.

"Here we are, Lieutenant," he said, stopping outside a modest-sized tent. He gave a perfunctory knock and then pulled the door carelessly open. A second later he was on the ground, reeling from a punch delivered squarely to his nose.

"Klinger! You idiot!"

"You can't just open the door like that!"

"Yeah, what are you thinking? We could've been naked!"

"Well, excuse me!" he said indignantly, still trying to recover his balance. "I'm a busy man! I can't plan my day around your nakedness." Nellie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as she took the clerk's elbow and helped him to his feet. "At any rate," he continued, dusting himself off with much ceremony, "I've just come to introduce you to your new tentmate. Lieutenants Kellye, Nagel, and Clark, this is Lieutenant Fenella Malone."

Three nurses popped their heads out the door and collectively pulled her inside. At once they began talking over each other, and in her near-comatose state, Nellie was having difficulty paying attention.

"Fenella? What kind of name's Fenella? I guess it's not any stranger than Kealani."

"Don't mind Klinger. He's a doofus, but the kind of doofus you can't do without."

"Have you eaten in the mess tent yet? Don't."

"Wow, what do you know, another redhead! Just like Baker!"

"You don't... snore, do you?"

Nellie had to laugh at the last one. "Not that I know of."

"We should warn you, Kellye does."

"You liar!"

Their chatter was interrupted by the sound of a male throat clearing itself. "Sorry, ladies," said Klinger, leaning casually against the door jamb, "I'm going to have to steal Lieutenant Malone until she's done checking in with the colonel. You can have your sleep-over party later." This quip was rewarded with a pillow to the face. "And count me out," he added, rubbing his nose.

_The plight of the enlisted man_, Nellie thought as she fell into step beside the harried corporal. It seemed to be an unspoken agreement among many of the higher-ranking officers that the NCOs were a lower species, undeserving of common courtesy. She had seen it more times than she could count, and it always got her dander up. It was up now.

"We're pretty informal, as you can probably tell," Klinger was saying. "The colonel's a great old guy. Been in three wars now, and he's still a heck of an officer. The only one you have to be careful around is Major Houlihan. She's regular Army, and she runs the nurses like a dog-sled team. I don't want to scare you, but I figured you ought to know, since you'll be answering to her now."

"How's your nose?" she asked.

"My—" He stopped in his tracks. "Say what?"

"Your nose," she repeated, tapping the tip of her own for emphasis. "The nurses are pretty pugilistic around here, aren't they?"

"Ohhh, that." A crooked grin spread over Klinger's face. "Don't worry about it. This honker's genetically designed to withstand the attacks of furious females."

Nellie laughed. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He smiled again, and this time it reached his dark eyes. "Thanks, Lieutenant."

As they walked, a familiar smell gradually reached her own nostrils: sweet and slightly musty, like damp hay. They passed a couple of permanent structures and rounded a corner, and Nellie was greeted by an unexpected sight. A slapdash stable had been knocked together behind the motorpool, and in the middle of it there was a beautiful mahogany-colored horse. It stood complacently, slowly chewing a mouthful of grain, as a white-haired man in his mid- to late sixties groomed its coat with a soft brush and talked amiably to it under his breath.

"Sir?" Klinger unfastened the gate and ushered Nellie through the fench surrounding the stable. "Colonel, the new nurse is here. You said you'd want to meet her." He gave her a little nudge forward. "Lieutenant Fenella Malone."

"Oh, right!" The commanding officer stuck out his hand in greeting. Nellie was surprised, expecting a salute, but she returned his handshake, touched by the simple, unaffected gesture. "Colonel Sherman Potter. Welcome to the 4077th."

"Thank you, Colonel," she replied, grateful that she wouldn't be serving under some officious, tyrannical despot. Relieved, she absently patted the horse's neck. The animal turned its head and sniffed at her curiously.

"Lieutenant Malone's had a long day, Colonel," said Klinger, affectionately tousling the horse's forelock. "She's probably pretty beat. I was thinking I'd take her to the mess tent for a quick bite, and then let her rest for a few hours before reporting to Major Houlihan."

"Sounds fine to me, as long as you don't let the food bite her back," Potter said easily. "You like Sophie, do you?"

Nellie looked up, startled by the colonel's question. "Me, sir?"

"Boy, you really _are_ bushed." He pointed at the horse. "Sophie. She's a doll, isn't she?"

"Oh! Yes, sir," she replied, stroking the animal's nose. "My neighbors had horses when I was growing up. They'd let us feed them apples whenever they came over to the fence."

"Uh-oh," said Potter. "Don't let Soph hear you say 'apples'. She's never seen one in her life. And she eats better than all of us."

"It'd be funny if it weren't true," Klinger muttered. "Well, after you, Lieutenant. And, uh, mind the horse apples."

As Nellie stepped gingerly out of the stable, Potter spoke again. "Just out of curiosity, Malone, where _did_ you grow up?"

"Bellflower, Oregon, sir," she said. "Just outside of Portland."

"Never been to the Northwest. Heard it's beautiful, though. And how long were you with the 8063rd?"

She paused at the gate. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"The 8063rd MASH. You _were_ stationed there, weren't you?"

"No, sir," she said slowly, confused. "I was with the Letterman Army Hospital in San Francisco."

"San Francisco?" Potter shouted, causing Sophie's ears to flatten in surprise. "Just how long have you been in Korea, Lieutenant?"

Nellie swallowed. This wasn't going so well anymore. "Well, sir," she said hesitantly, "including today... a day."

Klinger was wringing his baseball cap in his hands. "A day!" he repeated woefully. "Oh, God! Lieutenant, why didn't you tell me? Oh, God!"

"I'm sorry, I thought you already knew!" she cried.

"Now, take it easy, son," said Potter, coming forward and putting a hand on the clerk's shoulder. "It probably wasn't your fault... this time. Just a little miscommunication somewhere along the way."

"But I _know_ I sent the right form! I specifically requested a transfer from a _neighboring_ MASH unit! How'd they take that to mean a nurse fresh from the States?" Suddenly he gasped. "Major Houlihan is gonna blame me for this. Oh, God, I'm a dead man!"

"Uh, Lieutenant?" Potter gestured to Nellie over Klinger's ravings. "See if you can get him to calm down long enough to show you to the mess tent. And then make him drink some coffee. Your first duty is to restore his marbles."

"Yes, sir. Come on, Corporal." She tugged gently at his pink sleeve. "Let's go get ourselves some comestibles."

"She's gonna kill me," he was saying in a monotone as they entered the mess tent. "And then she'll have me demoted." He clutched Nellie's arm, looking around in panic. "She's not in here, is she?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," she said wearily. Of all the things she'd expected when she came to Korea, attempting to comfort a terrified company clerk was not one of them. "Look, Corporal. I'm sure everything will work itself out. In the meantime, would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to bring me something to eat? I really need to sit down."

Klinger turned toward her, and for the first time he seemed to notice her flagging eyelids behind her glasses. "Oh, yeah, yeah, of course, Lieutenant," he said kindly. "I'm sorry. Go ahead and have a seat. I'll be right back."

_Sweet kid_, she thought as she staggered over to the nearest table and collapsed. Of course, she mused idly as she leaned forward and rested her head on her folded arms, the corporal _wasn't_ exactly a kid. In fact, he looked a few years older than her. Funny how those maternal instincts kicked in at the stupidest times.

Speaking of kids, she wondered how Danny was doing. He was stationed down in Pusan, safely away from the fighting, which eased her worry somewhat. From the letters she'd received before her own transfer, he seemed to be adjusting well. His knack for crunching numbers had landed him a job in supplies. Of course, he probably hadn't told his superiors that his big sister used to help him with his math homework.

"Well, well, gentlemen," came a sudden voice, jolting her out of her reverie, "look what the war dragged in."

Nellie raised her head to see three very tall men standing over her table. The man on the left was wearing a tattered purple bathrobe that hung loosely from his lanky frame. He had black hair shot through with gray, and he returned her bleary stare with a pair of very mischievous blue eyes. The man in the middle was taller and had a more athletic build, and he was blond with a funny-looking mustache to match. And the third man was taller still, with a slight paunch and little hair to speak of. He was holding a cup of coffee, and he wore a major's star on his collar and an amused smirk on his face.

_Wait a second... a major's star? Oh, crumbs._

She exploded from her seat and stood up straight, giving a hasty salute. "Terribly sorry, sir, it won't happen again."

The major chuckled dryly. "Please," he said, gesturing for her to lower her hand, "let's not be vulgar."

Nonplussed, she put her hand down. "Yes, sir."

The blond man nodded toward the table where she'd been half-dozing. "As you were, Lieutenant. Make yourself uncomfortable."

Nellie gratefully reclaimed her seat, and the three men sat down across from her. "So," the lanky one said, propping his chin on a bony hand, "come here often, Red?"

"Oh, come, use your eyes, Pierce," the major drawled in a curious accent that wasn't quite English. "This is obviously the young lady's first visit to the seventh circle of Hell." He extended his hand across the table. "Charles Emerson Winchester. How do you do?"

She took his hand, intrigued by his old-world manners and all-too-apparent education. "I do tolerably well, Major Winchester," she answered. "Second Lieutenant Fenella Malone."

"Malone." His hand abruptly retreated. "Irish?"

She gamely raised an eyebrow. "Unabashedly."

Winchester made a vague little noise of disappointment and sipped his coffee.

"Ooh, this is going to be fun," said the dark-haired man. He took her outstretched hand and pumped it enthusiastically. "Hawkeye Pierce."

At that moment Klinger returned with a couple of trays of something that resembled peas and mashed potatoes. "Hawkeye?" Nellie repeated as he slid a tray in front of her. "That's from — thank you, Corporal — from _The Last of the Mohicans_, isn't it?"

Pierce looked exaggeratedly over both of his shoulders, his eyes narrowed. "Who told you?" he said in mock suspicion.

As Klinger sat down beside her, Nellie picked up a forkful of peas and brought it to her mouth. Immediately the utensil fell from her hand with a clatter, and her body gave an involuntary head-to-toe shudder. Pierce began howling with laughter.

"Yeah, that's the general reaction," said the blond man good-naturedly. He shook her empty hand. "Hi. B.J. Hunnicutt."

"Pleased to meet you." She tried the potatoes, and found them to be marginally less offensive. "What does B.J. stand for?"

"Balthazar Jujube," he answered without hesitation.

Nellie laughed, nearly choking on her food. These men were certifiable.

Klinger nudged her. "These three whackjobs are our esteemed surgeons," he told her.

She turned to him in surprise. Surgeons? Looking at Winchester, she could believe it, dripping with professionalism and all. But Pierce and Hunnicutt? The two behaved like a couple of new draftees. Still, maybe it was a good sign. At least they hadn't allowed their regrettable surroundings to kill their sense of humor.

"Ah, yes, whackjobs," Winchester said with a sardonic smile. "How eloquent. And high praise indeed from the man who, on this day last year, was no doubt wearing a cheery house frock and size-twelve heels."

"That's a malicious lie," Klinger exclaimed. "It would've been far too cold for a house frock. My angora sweater, at the very least."

Nellie was beginning to feel a little like Alice at the Mad Hatter's tea party. Hunnicutt must have noticed her bemused expression. "Don't worry," he assured her. "You'll get used to us. It's easier if you just jump right in, instead of dipping one toe at a time."

"That's something _Chahhls_ here has had to learn the hard way," Pierce added.

"On the contrary," Winchester replied with dignity, "I find great comfort in the knowledge that I have thus far remained unsoiled by your debauchery."

"All the more reason you need to soil yourself more often," Pierce rejoined.

Nellie had to hide her smile behind her hand as she watched Winchester raise his blue eyes heavenward. She couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the major; it was clear that he didn't share the other surgeons' irreverent humor. In this strange place, thousands of miles from everything she knew, however, she found their cheeky behavior immensely refreshing. _Maybe_, she thought, _this won't be as horrible as I thought it would be._

It was then that she became cognizant of a distant vibration — a whirring, thumping sound that she felt before she actually heard.

Klinger groaned. "Oh, no."

"What is that?" Nellie asked, curious.

The four men glanced at each other before answering in unison. "Choppers."

* * *

A/N: Dang, that was long. Also, I really underestimated how much fun this would be. I've been a _M*A*S*H_ fan for about ten years now, and I love all the characters, with the possible exception of Ferret-face. But actually writing them, and making them speak, is such a kick. Especially with Charles. I absolutely love the way he talks, and it's a sheer joy putting words in his mouth. I suppose it's also pretty obvious I love Klinger, too. But I digress. My hands hurt from typing, so I'm going to take a little break. In the meantime, I'd adore some reviews, hint hint.

Oh, and on another note, to my knowledge, there is no such place as Bellflower, Oregon. I just thought it sounded nice. And I do hope you caught the Malibu reference.

-Octopus


	3. Pull Up a Gutter and Fall Down

A/N: Hooray, chapter three at last! Sorry about the delay. My computer decided to be an idiot and crashed for no apparent reason. But I just got an _adorable_ little blue Netbook, which I will be typing this story on. So I'm pretty sure it'll be safe. Anyway, my sincere thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I'm glad to see people are enjoying the story so far, so with that in mind, I'll shut up and let you read the latest installment.

Disclaimer: _M*A*S*H_ is the property of _Twentieth Century Fox_, and not a certain cranky cephalapod.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Three: Pull Up a Gutter and Fall Down

Korea was like a bad dream, Margaret decided as she quickly finished scrubbing and donning her surgical cap, mask and gown. One long, continuous bad dream that occasionally escalated into a nightmare. And it was always the _same_ nightmare. The wounded soldiers would be brought in, like a pile of broken, discarded toys, and she would have to wash up as fast as she could, or else the pile would become too large to manage. Scrub up, stitch the toys back together. It never changed. As horrendous as it was, she almost wished for some variety.

Of course, the war wasn't without its features of interest. Every now and then, Margaret would be thrown a curve ball. Usually it was in the form of someone like Frank Burns or Donald Penobscott. In hindsight, she wished that Fate had kept those little doozies to Herself.

Then again, when it came to friends, she had hit a few home runs, as well. Dear, sweet Colonel Potter, for one. Father Mulcahy, a literal Godsend, was another. Hawkeye Pierce, that scoundrel who never seemed to let her down. B.J. Hunnicutt, a goofy, gallant prince among men. Charles Winchester, as unflinchingly loyal as he was infuriating. And even Max Klinger, that lovable little weasel.

That wasn't even counting her nurses. She knew none of them were likely to regard her as a friend, but she also knew she could rely on each and every one of them to do their job, and do it well. Yes, she pushed them hard, but it was only because she was proud of them, and...

...Wait a minute. Where'd _that_ nurse come from?

Frowning behind her mask, Margaret watched the unfamiliar young woman as she frenziedly pulled her mass of frizzy red hair into a bun and stuffed it under a surgical cap. She was small and pale, with a pair of black-framed cat-eye glasses. And she looked young. _Very _young.

Margaret cleared her throat pointedly, and the nurse looked up from scrubbing her thin white arms. "If it's not _too_ much trouble," she said sweetly, "would you mind telling me who the hell you are?"

The redhead paused in the middle of snapping on a glove and gave a hasty salute. "Second Lieutenant Fenella Malone, ma'am. Your replacement nurse. You must be Major Houlihan."

"I certainly am," Margaret snapped. "And I'd love to know why you decided not to report to me, Lieutenant."

"I apologize, Major," the nurse replied as she struggled to tie her mask behind her head. Her low voice was shaking almost imperceptibly. "I only arrived about half an hour ago. Colonel Potter said it would be all right if I rested up a bit before coming to see you." She swallowed. "From the looks of it, that might not be for a while yet."

"No," said Margaret, softening a little. "The casualties don't exactly conform to our schedules." Taking pity on the young woman, she took the strings from her hands and tied the mask for her. "I'll let you off the hook this time, Malone. But I expect you to come straight to me after the last man is stitched up. In the meantime, do _precisely_ as the doctors tell you, and you'll be all right. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Major." The nurse took a deep breath and, performing an awkward about-face, opened the door to the operating room with her back, careful not to touch anything. Margaret watched her go, shaking her head. This war didn't even give a woman time to catch her breath.

* * *

"I've got the last one coming in," Klinger announced as he wheeled a gurney into the O.R., carrying a badly bleeding soldier. "Or at least," the Lebanese added with a sigh, "the last one until the next wave drowns us all."

"Thank the Lord for the lull," said Father Mulcahy in a low voice.

"All right, boys, who's got a free hand?" Potter asked as he took a sponge from the nurse beside him.

Hunnicutt shook his head. "Not me. This kid's got some serious nerve damage. He'll be lucky if he keeps his leg." He glanced up at the chief surgeon. "What about you, Hawk?"

"I'd love to help, if only I had the extra appendages."

"Well, someone had better volunteer, quick!" Margaret barked.

"My, my, I wish I were in such high demand at home," said Charles, putting the finishing touches on a particularly fine set of sutures. _Beautiful, in fact._ If only those bureaucratic fools at Boston General could see him now, performing delicate surgery under poor conditions and often dangerous circumstances. If only they knew what it took to be a _real_ surgeon. Perhaps they would have thought twice about passing him over for some imbecile who wouldn't know the meaning of _thoracic surgery_ if he was bludgeoned with a medical encyclopedia. Come to think of it, he would dearly love to be the one to do the honors.

Alas, this was no time for fantasizing. He tied off the 3-0 silk with a flourish. "All right, Klinger, show the patient to my office."

The young soldier on his operating table was swiftly replaced with another wounded one. _Good heavens_, Charles thought despite himself. The lad was leaking blood from several shrapnel wounds; it appeared as though he had been closest to the shelling. He could not have been more than twenty.

"We'd best not waste any more time," he told the nurse beside him. He stripped off his bloody gloves, and she stretched a pair of new ones over his hands. Then he turned to the anaesthetist. "Make absolutely certain he's under. He may be unconscious now, but we wouldn't want any rude awakenings."

"Neither would he, I imagine," said the nurse beside him, softly.

Charles raised an eyebrow at her. "Indeed."

He looked at her curiously for a while, trying to remember her name. It was the Irish nurse who had come in just before the casualties. MacKenzie? Malarkey? No, that certainly couldn't be it. _Malone._ Yes, that was the name. An odd little woman. In contrast with the easygoing manner she had displayed in the mess tent, she had stood stiffly beside him all through surgery, hardly saying a word, but responding to all of his commands with alacrity. He couldn't help but notice, however, as she passed him the instruments, that her hands shook ever so slightly.

"He's under, Doctor," the anaesthetist told him, interrupting his observations.

"Good," he said shortly. "Scalpel."

The redheaded nurse placed the implement in his hand. "Scalpel."

With a swift incision, Charles opened the patient to better see the extent of the damage. "Not as bad as I'd anticipated," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Perforated liver. Mm-hmm... Ah, there it is. The tell-tale artery."

"It's been nicked," the nurse murmured. Charles wondered how it was possible for such a small woman to have so low and sonorous a voice. "It's barely noticeable, but there it is. I don't know how you spotted that, Doctor. No wonder he's lost so much blood. "

"Easily remedied. Arterial clamp." She passed it to him, and he stanched the bleeding. "The fellow is fortunate — lap sponge, quickly — to have the finest surgeon in all of Korea, and I daresay even Eastern Asia, attending on him."

Pierce snorted a laugh. "Isn't it a little early to be failing to endear yourself to the new nurse, Charles?"

"Yeah, Chuck," added Hunnicutt. "Give her some time to get to know you before she decides to hate you."

Margaret groaned in exasperation. "Can we _please_ behave with a little professionalism, just this once?"

"What'll you give me?" Pierce asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Let me put it this way, Pierce," the head nurse replied, narrowing her eyes. "You get to _keep_ your—"

"_Goodness_, Major!" Mulcahy cut her off, staring at her in horror through his spectacles.

Charles sighed in vexation. It was always the same thing, over and over. The ribs and jests turned into insults, which in turn became outright threats, until someone with a semblance of respect and dignity put a stop to it. A temporary measure, of course. It would begin again the very next time they convened for this grim duty. It was all so very demoralizing.

Then suddenly he heard a new sound: something just as familiar as the immature O.R. drivel, but completely unexpected and infinitely more welcome. Somewhere in the room, someone was whistling. And it wasn't just any whistling, like _Yankee Doodle_ or _My Darling Clementine_. He could barely hear it over the hum of conversation and the clatter of instruments, but the tune itself was unmistakable.

It was Mozart.

Charles's breath caught in his throat as he listened. Yes, there was no question. It was the opening notes to the _Allegro_ movement of Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 22 in E Flat Major. He would recognize that sweet melody anywhere. But where was it coming from?

"Who is that?" he blurted, more sharply than he'd intended. "Who is whistling?"

Instantly the sound was silenced.

"Whistling?" repeated Pierce. "What are you talking about? I don't hear anything."

"Well, of course you don't," Charles said impatiently. "It's stopped now. Who was that?"

"I didn't hear anyone whistling, Winchester," said Potter.

"Didn't hear anyone whistling _Dixie_, either," Hunnicutt quipped.

"If anyone _is_ whistling, knock it off," said Margaret. "You're distracting the surgeons."

Charles growled in frustration. Was everyone in this ridiculous camp completely incapable of giving a straight answer? He turned hopefully to the redheaded nurse, who was applying suction to his patient. "Did you hear it, Lieutenant? You've been beside me the entire time."

She shook her head quickly. "No, Doctor," she said, her eyes on the operating table. "I'm afraid I didn't."

He blew out an irritated breath, causing his mask to inflate. Perhaps this place had finally broken him, and he was going mad. Still, if hearing Mozart in one's head qualified as a mental condition, at least it would be a happy sort of madness.

At length Pierce and Hunnicutt finished with their patients and staggered out of the O.R., leaving only Charles and Potter along their assisting nurses. Finally Charles removed the last of the shrapnel and repaired the damage it had caused to the soldier's organs. "There we are," he said, setting aside his forceps. "Good as new. Though I'll wager he will be none too pleased when his physician tells him to keep off his liver for the next several weeks."

The new nurse, Malone, shook her head. "If he has any sense at all, he won't complain. You're a very skilled surgeon, Major. You make it all seem so... effortless."

To all appearances, Charles remained suavely indifferent to the compliment, but he permitted himself a smile behind his mask. "Not at all, Lieutenant," he replied. "Quite to the contrary, in fact. It is not exceedingly difficult to stand out, when the general level of competence is so appallingly low."

"Watch it, Winchester," Potter growled. "You're not too old to be bent over my knee."

"Naturally, you are the superb exception to the rule, Colonel," Charles added diplomatically. He turned to Malone. "May I trust you to close for me?"

She hesitated for perhaps only half a second. "Yes, Doctor."

Glancing at her one last time, Charles left the O.R. and proceeded to the washing station to remove his stained garments, tossing them in the laundry receptacle. Outside, the daylight had faded into a dull orange glow. Taking a seat on a bench against the wall, he leaned slowly forward, stretching out the muscles in his sore back. God, but it took a toll on a man, being on his feet for hours on end. Of course, his wafer-thin mattress would not help matters; it never did. Perpetual exhaustion, with relief always just out of reach. He had a great deal of sympathy for that Tantalus fellow.

He had no idea how long he stayed in that position, but when he raised his head, he realized he was no longer alone. Malone, the nurse who had assisted him in surgery, was there. He observed silently as she tore off her blood-stained scrubs and hurled them forcefully into the laundry bin. With a flick of her wrist, she tugged off her mask; another flick, and the cap was gone, revealing a cloud of untidy red frizz. Then she went to the washing station.

Unsure of what else to do, Charles simply watched as she scrubbed furiously at her hands until they were an angry red. After a more than sufficient amount of time had passed, she shut off the water and towelled her hands dry. Finally she looked up.

Charles met her eyes and looked back.

Malone cleared her throat. "I didn't know anyone else was in here," she said, quite needlessly.

"That much I had gathered," he replied.

There was an awkward silence, during which the nurse tried to fold her raw hands under her arms. She was a diminutive little thing, he thought. He had noticed in the O.R. that the top of her head did not even reach his shoulder. But in her loose-fitting olive drab fatigues, she appeared even smaller. She wasn't excessively pretty, either; at least, she was not overtly attractive, like, for example, Margaret. Her features were very elfin, and she had an absurd little turned-up nose which was apparently too small to hold her glasses in place. And then there was her hair, which was almost like a separate entity. But her face was very open and expressive, and at the moment her brow was exaggeratedly furrowed in a way Charles found amusing.

She looked distinctly uncomfortable as she pointedly ignored his gaze. He decided to put her out of her misery.

"This is your first time in Korea," he said, "isn't it?"

To his surprise, the corner of her mouth quirked into a wry smile. "Is it that obvious, sir?"

"Painfully." He rose to his feet, wincing slightly as a twinge shot through his bad back. _Speaking of painful_, he thought. "Your demeanor in the O.R. was all too indicative of your inexperience in what Pierce would call 'meatball surgery'."

"Lovely," Malone said dryly. Her small features were contorted into an expression of displeasure. "I'm sorry if I was... inadequate in any way. I'm just not used to seeing such severe injuries."

"Indeed." Charles awkwardly passed a hand over what was left of his hair. He was simply no good at offering comfort. "There is no reason, however, to conclude that there must be some deficiency on your part." There, that didn't sound too terrible. "I myself was faced with the same dilemma when I was sentenced to this..." He chuckled humorlessly. "This Kafka-esque nightmare."

He shook his head, remembering his first day in the O.R. The endless flood of casualties. The ever-present ticking of the clock in the back of his mind. "There were so many wounded," he said quietly, his eyes far away. "So many wounded, and not enough time to treat them; at least, not with the thoroughness to which I was accustomed. I had no other choice but to adapt, to find a way to make the best of what little time I could devote to each soldier, without feeling I was... giving less than my best... or cheating my patients."

He glanced at Malone and wondered why she was looking at him with such concentrated interest. Suddenly he realized he hadn't been speaking to her, but giving voice to his innermost thoughts. He stopped abruptly. What on earth had possessed him to say those things?

"In any event, Lieutenant," he continued quickly, "I have little doubt that you will adjust, as well." He hesitated. "In point of fact, you were... quite a capable assistant."

With that, he succeeded in coaxing another lopsided smile from her, and this time it wasn't ironical. "Thank you, Major," she said in her incongruously low voice.

Reluctantly, Charles returned her smile. "Think nothing of it," he replied magnanimously. "Now run along, Lieutenant. I believe you have an acerbic head nurse to report to."

Malone's green eyes widened, and a hand went to her mouth. "Oh, crumbs," she said, rather puzzlingly. "I'd completely forgotten." She grabbed her coat from the nearby rack and threw it around herself. "Thank you again, Major," she called as she sprinted out the door.

Hands in his pockets, Charles strolled outside into the fading autumn light, feeling quite pleased with himself. He'd done his good deed for the month.

* * *

_Let he who is without fault cast the first right hook_, thought Francis John Patrick Mulcahy as he frowned down at the tray of food in his hands. He had the urge to cast a few of his own at Pernelli, the so-called camp cook, but he resisted temptation for the moment. After all, it wasn't Pernelli's fault that the Army was so inhumanly remorseless when it came to the food they doled out to their personnel; if, indeed, it could be called food. One simply had to be grateful for what one was given, however disappointing and occasionally unrecognizable it often was.

With a long-suffering sigh, Mulcahy took his tray, along with a cup of coffee, and looked around for a place to sit. As his pale blue eyes scanned the mess tent, they lighted on a comical sight. An abundance of messy red hair was piled in a heap on one of the tables. Attached to it, of course, was a woman, sound asleep where she sat. A tray of untouched food was situated before her, and one white arm stretched across the table, a folded letter in its limp hand.

Smiling, the priest sat down unobtrusively across from her and sipped his burnt coffee. He recognized the sleeping nurse as the replacement for the recently discharged Baker, but in the frenzy of surgery the previous day, he had not yet had the chance to make her acquaintance. From the looks of it, he would have to wait a little longer.

Absently, he lifted a forkful of powdered eggs and brought it to his mouth. His eyes widening, he spat it back onto his tray with an exclamation of disgust. "Dear Lord," he muttered, wiping his lips.

At the sudden noise, the nurse's head shot up, and she looked around in brief panic before her eyes settled on Mulcahy. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, adjusting her skewed glasses in embarrassment. "I guess I drifted off."

"That's quite all right," he assured her. "I apologize for waking you, my child. But it would appear I'm allergic to inedible food."

She smiled at him, and he observed with concern that she had dark smudges under her sage green eyes. "You must be the chaplain."

"Indeed I am." He held out his hand, and she set down the letter she had been holding and shook it. "Father Francis Mulcahy."

"Second Lieutenant Fenella Malone. Pleased to meet you, Father."

"Malone?" The priest's eyes lit up in delight. "Why, the pleasure is all mine! You know," he continued confidingly, wagging a finger at her, "I had an inkling you must be an Irishwoman, with your red hair."

She glanced up at her unruly curls. "Yes, it's a dead give-away, isn't it?" she remarked sheepishly. "My family likes to call it 'the mark of the Malone'. Every one of us has it."

"Well, you should be proud. Without, of course, being conceited," Mulcahy added hastily. "It's a lovely color, Ms. Malone."

The nurse gave a low chuckle. "Call me Nellie, Father."

"Nellie. Of course."

"What is this, a Notre Dame rally?" came a sudden voice above them.

Mulcahy looked up to see his two favorite prodigal surgeons towering over their table. "Oh, good morning, Hawkeye, B.J.," he said, nodding to both of them as they took their seats on either side of the nurse. "We were just discussing dominant genetic traits. Red hair, for example. Or in your case, Hawkeye," he added with a slight smile, "impertinence."

He grinned. "That stings, Father. I prefer to call it sass." He turned to Nellie. "Whatcha got there, Red?"

She frowned at him in confusion. "Got?" He pointed at the letter next to her food tray. "Oh, this. Just a letter from my little brother Danny. He's stationed down in Pusan. Actually," she said with a self-effacing smile, "Danny is the main reason I came to Korea."

"Uh-oh," said Hawkeye, with a knowing grin. "Overprotective sibling on the loose."

"Watch out, or she'll spit into a handkerchief and wash your face with it," said B.J.

"I am not that bad!" Nellie protested, laughing. "I did not come here to make sure he tucks in his shirt and eats all his vegetables. In fact," she said, peering dubiously down at her tray, "I'm not entirely certain I've seen any vegetables since I arrived."

As she picked listlessly at her food, her smile faded. "I know it's unrealistic to think I could be of any help to him, with him in Pusan and me all the way up here. But if... if anything _were_ to happen..." She bit her lip. "I'd rather be here, than an entire ocean away."

B.J. patted her arm. "He's lucky to have a sister like you," he said, very kindly, Mulcahy noted with satisfaction. Kindness meant he was doing his job.

"Thank you, sir." Suddenly she frowned. "What is that commotion?"

Mulcahy turned to see Major Winchester standing in the food line, in the heat of yet another argument with Klinger. "What do you mean, _nothing?_" he snapped. "This _is_ mail day, is it not? And that _is_ your tattered bag of correspondence, is it not?"

"Yes, _and_ yes," said Klinger, his own voice raised in irritation. "I'm sorry, Major, you didn't get any mail. Not today."

"Oh?" Winchester furrowed his brow in mock perplexity. "Could it really be so? Or could it be," he continued furiously, grabbing the mail bag out of the corporal's hands, "that any letters I might have been expecting have plummeted through the craters of this disreputable rucksack of yours?" He shook it for emphasis, and Mulcahy heard the rustle of paper from within.

"Hey, I only use what the Army gives me, Major," Klinger protested. "And for your information, I didn't lose _anything_. I carefully sorted every piece of mail that came today, and there wasn't a single one with your revered name on it."

Winchester threw the bag back to him. "Klinger," he said matter-of-factly, "you are only slightly less useful than a one-winged carrier pigeon." With that he turned and stalked away.

"And a good morning to you, too," Klinger muttered as he trudged wearily out of the mess tent.

Father Mulcahy shook his head sadly as he watched the corporal leave. It always dismayed him to see the non-commissioned officers treated with contempt, especially when it was Klinger. The poor lad was trying so hard to fulfill his seemingly endless list of new duties, but it seemed that no one was willing to wait for him to get the hang of it. The fact that Major Winchester, who fancied himself so refined, was the one mistreating him irked the priest all the more.

"Hello, all," Winchester said as he set down his tray and slid onto the bench beside him, "is today's breakfast fit for human consumption?"

No one answered. Apparently the others were as impressed with the major's tantrum as Mulcahy was.

Winchester raised his eyebrows. "Well, aren't we all garrulous this morning?" He poked at his scrambled eggs. "And how are you, Lieutenant Malone?" he asked. "I trust you slept well after yesterday's onslaught."

Mulcahy glanced up at the redhead to find her regarding the major with ill-concealed distaste. "Not especially, sir," she answered coolly. She set down her fork with deliberate calm. "You know, enlisted men are people, too."

On either side of the pint-sized nurse, Hawkeye and B.J. were grinning. Winchester, on the other hand, shot her a questioning look. "I'm not sure I know what you mean," he said.

Nellie pushed her tray aside. "With all due respect, sir, Corporal Klinger was just doing his job. There was no need for you to treat him that way."

The Bostonian gave a derisive chuckle. "My dear," he said patiently, as if he were humoring a difficult child, "you evidently do not _know_ Corporal Klinger. The man is so spectacularly incompetent, it's a marvel he is even able to look after himself, let alone the responsibilities of a company clerk."

"Now see here, Major," Mulcahy couldn't help but interject. "That's simply not true. Klinger has had some trouble adjusting to his new duties, but that's quite understandable. Personally, I'd say he's coming along very well."

"New duties?" Nellie repeated.

"Our last company clerk was sent home not too long ago," Hawkeye explained. "Radar O'Reilly. You'll probably hear his name a lot while you're here. He was a small fry, but the impact he left was pretty big. Klinger's having a hell of a time trying to fill Radar's shoes." He cringed at Mulcahy's disapproving frown. "Sorry, Father."

"So now, Klinger is faced with a myriad of new duties," Nellie said, almost to herself. Then she looked up at Winchester, one eyebrow raised. "Suddenly, he simply has to learn to... What was the word you used, Major? 'Adapt'?"

Mulcahy turned to Winchester, who met her challenging gaze. "What, precisely, is your point, Lieutenant?" he asked flatly.

"My point, _precisely_, is that you were in a very similar situation when you came to Korea. You were immersed in an environment you were completely unprepared for, and you had no choice but to adapt to it. And yet you have no sympathy for Klinger. Don't you think you should reconsider the way you're treating him?"

Winchester opened his mouth, no doubt intending to respond with some caustic retort, but B.J. cut him off. "Come on, now, let's be fair. It's not like Klinger is Charles's personal whipping boy."

The major nodded his acknowledgment. "Thank you, Hunnicutt."

"That title is generously extended to include any soldier under the rank of lieutenant," B.J. clarified.

At this the redhead's eyes narrowed at Winchester behind her glasses. "Ah, yes, I know the type. A firm believer and enforcer of N.C.O." She smiled dryly. "Non-commissioned oppression."

Hawkeye and B.J. chuckled under their breath, but Winchester merely smirked. "How very clever," he replied. Mulcahy almost thought he detected an undercurrent of hurt in his superior tone. "Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time before these uncultured swine turned you against me. Perhaps it's for the best that we get it out of the way now, and save ourselves the trouble later." He stood up from the table and nodded curtly. "Gentlemen."

As the tall surgeon briskly walked out of the mess tent, Mulcahy watched as Nellie stared down at the table, her expressive face pinched with guilt. "Don't let him fool you, Red," Hawkeye said with a dismissive wave of his long, thin hand. "He actually juggles at kids' parties."

For some inexplicable reason, Mulcahy felt the need to defend the major. "Please, you two," he said. "Let's not give Lieutenant Malone the wrong impression. Major Winchester has many..." He struggled. "That is to say, he has some fine qualities. Which you both have seen for yourselves! Why you insist on making him out to be an insensitive bigot really is beyond me."

Neither doctors looked sufficiently penitent, but his scolding seemed to do the trick. "You're right, Father," B.J. conceded. "We're sorry."

"Yeah, don't listen to us," Hawkeye told Nellie. "Charles is a puppy dog. Really." He took a sip of his coffee. "A puppy dog with distemper."

Mulcahy sighed in defeat. "Honestly..."

Nellie shook her head, her eyes on the door of the mess tent. "I probably shouldn't have reacted the way I did. But I just have no tolerance for that kind of pompous attitude. Do you know," she continued, leaning forward on her arms, "that Klinger was the first person to make me feel welcome here? He was so friendly and helpful. He doesn't deserve to be treated like... like a..."

"Slave?" B.J. offered.

"Exactly! And neither, for that matter, do any of the other enlisted men!" She was beginning to get rather animated. "Just because they have a lower rank, that doesn't mean that their problems are any less important than ours! Where does this irrational prejudice even _come_ from?"

"Methinks the lady's brother is a non-comm," Hawkeye remarked.

The lieutenant's face reddened to match her hair. "Sorry," she said in embarrassment. "You're right, Big Sister Syndrome strikes again." She sighed. "I just hope Danny doesn't have to deal with anyone like that in _his_ company. The poor kid's only a private."

"I wouldn't worry about it," said B.J. with a shrug. "Fortunately for your brother, Charles is one of a kind."

* * *

A/N: I'm being mean. I know. Charles isn't all bad; in fact, he's my favorite character. But let's face it, he's a jerk, almost all of the time. It's those occasional glimpses of the big heart behind that hopelessly arrogant exterior that makes it possible for us to like him. _If_ we like him, that is. You have to admit, he's better than Frank.

Anywho, I'll shut up. I do _really_ hope everyone's enjoying my story so far. I'm thoroughly enjoying writing it, and I have no plans to stop. For now, though, I'd like to give my fingers a break. But you are more than free to leave a review if you so desire.

-Octopus


	4. Civilization in Korea

A/N: Wow, I wasn't expecting Charles to have so many supporters! I guess I should have known; he has friends in high places. Still, to everyone who reviewed, I apologize for using our favorite Bostonian rather roughly. Don't fret; it's called a plot device. But lest we forget, Charles dishes it out as often as he takes it. That's one of the things I love — yes, _love_ — about him: he's every bit as capable as Hawkeye or B.J. when it comes to witty retorts... unlike Frank, who was woefully deficient in that area.

And just like that, I'm rambling again. I'd better divert all these thoughts into a more useful channel. Like Chapter Four!

Disclaimer: I was not born until two years after the final episode of _M*A*S*H_ aired. So needless to say, it does not belong to me.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Four: Civilization in Korea

Perched on the edge of his bunk, Private Daniel Malone shifted on the thin, lumpy mattress as he tried to find a comfortable position. He glanced over at his bunkmates, but they were engaged in an absorbing game of extremely-low-stakes poker. Danny smiled to himself, taking stock of the bets that had been placed on the rickety deal table: a pair of socks, a candy bar, a yellowed paperback. His friends certainly were high rollers.

Satisfied that they were occupied and would therefore find no interest in his affairs, Danny reached behind his pillow and retrieved the letter he had gotten that morning. He paused for a moment, allowing himself to take in the small, precise handwriting on the envelope. Then he carefully lifted the adhesive flap and pulled out several sheets of paper, densely filled on each side with the same cramped writing. Danny shook his head with a crooked smile. _Wordy and long-winded, as usual,_ he thought. _That's my sis._

Folding his skinny legs Indian-style beneath himself, he smoothed the papers out on his knee and began to read.

_Dear Danny,_

_Greetings from Uijeongbu! How's my baby brother? I hope you're doing well in your outfit. I know you're less than pleased with me for volunteering for a transfer. But you should have known I wouldn't be content to sit on my behind in San Francisco while you were off seeing the world. Why should I let you have all the fun? Besides, this way we get to share stories about our respective camps. I'm sure you have some entertaining characters where you're stationed. I certainly do._

_Where to begin? I suppose I could start with my commanding officer, Colonel Sherman Potter. You would like him, Danny. I don't think I could have asked for a better C.O. This is his third war, and as a result, he's something of a mix of the old school and the new. He's strict, but forgiving; professional, but easy-going. He can be a bit gruff, but I suspect it has something to do with being surrounded by younger officers who have a habit of trying his patience. Then there's the fact that he's been away from his wife, children, and grandchildren for... well, the better part of his adult life. Somehow I can't blame him for getting a little grouchy once in a while. But he's a dear old man, with a passion for painting and horses. He has a mare named Sophie, and she's a sweetheart. He's actually allowed me to brush her a couple times._

_Then of course, there are my bunkmates, Maddie Clark, Loretta Nagel, and Kealani Kellye. Growing up around you and Dad and Uncle Will, I guess I was sheltered from the majority of any potential feminine influences. I'm sure Mother would be appalled to know I'm more at ease around men, but I can't help it. And sharing a tent with three other women is trying at the best of times. But I can't complain about the girls themselves; they're pretty good-natured, especially Kellye. Actually, it's my fervent wish that you end up marrying someone just like her._

_Right now they're all asleep, which is understandable. We've all been run ragged by the head nurse, Major Margaret Houlihan. If Colonel Potter is strict, then Major Houlihan is a dictator! She's the most exacting superior I've ever had the misfortune of serving under. Well... no, that's not really fair of me to say. It's not like a hospital shouldn't have high standards. And it's not a misfortune to have to live up to them; in fact, it seems like the more Houlihan pushes us, the more we improve. And anyway, I kind of have no choice but to admire her. She's tough and intelligent and extremely skilled as a nurse, but at the same time so proudly and undeniably feminine. I can't help feeling a little jealous._

_And then there's our group of surgeons. There are four in all, one of which being Colonel Potter himself, but the three others each deserve their own separate paragraphs. Starting with Captain Benjamin Pierce. Only he doesn't go by Benjamin, and if you do call him Benjamin, he probably won't even realize you're speaking to him. He goes by Hawkeye. He's a basketcase, Danny. You'd love him. He's insufferably cheeky, but his grin and his good humor — or as he would say, being from Maine, "you-mer" — are definitely contagious. Sometimes he can be a little __too__ flippant; he jokes when he should be serious. But I can't begrudge him his corny one-liners, if they keep him sane. We all have our defenses. What __does__ grate on my nerves is his constant flirting. Not with __me__, so stop clenching your teeth. But with the other nurses. He never lets up on them. Thankfully, he doesn't see me that way; as a matter of fact, I got the distinct impression when I first came here that he was a little disappointed that I wasn't prettier. But I don't mind. His lack of interest makes my job easier._

Danny shook his head with a perturbed sigh. It had been an unavoidable part of growing up with Nellie that she had been perpetually dissatisfied with her physical appearance. No amount of disputing in the world could convince her that she was anything other than small, plain, and bookish. _Librarianesque_, was the term she had coined for herself. True, her glasses tended to consume her features, and her hair was a bit out of control, but he knew by the brazen comments made by his own friends that she wasn't the stuffy old schoolmarm she made herself out to be.

Although, he had to concede as he read on, she was still a hopeless poindexter.

_In contrast to Captain Pierce's womanizing ways, Captain B.J. Hunnicutt is the quintessential family man, from the top of his blond head right down to his gargantuan shoes. He has a wife and a baby girl back in San Francisco, and you can just tell it's killing him to be away from them. But you should see the way his face lights up every time he gets a letter or a box of rum cake or an incomprehensible crayon doodle. It's amazing how something so seemingly unimportant can keep a person going. Captain Pierce has his jokes, and Captain Hunnicutt has his letters. Although Hunnicutt certainly isn't above playing a good prank. Frankly, he's as bad as Pierce. In fact, just the other day he hollowed out one of Major Winchester's books and put a rubber mouse inside it. I felt bad for him. Well... I felt bad for the book, anyway. It was Wordsworth._

_Oh, dear. Major Winchester. That's Charles Emerson Winchester III to you. He's our other surgeon, and to be honest, he's the best I've ever seen. He went to Harvard, and was stationed at Tokyo General before some freak accident involving a game of cribbage landed him here at the 4077th. Needless to say, he wasn't thrilled about it. I think he tries to get his revenge by being disagreeable to everyone around him. But I guess I wouldn't be pleased either, if I were in his shoes. After all, I volunteered to come to Korea, whereas he didn't even have a choice._

_Sometimes I feel sorry for Major Winchester. He really is brilliant; his knowledge of classical music and literature, not to mention his vocabulary, are downright enviable. But his superior attitude just gets under my skin. He seems to think his intelligence entitles him to special treatment. And it's not like he really even earned it. By some geographical accident of the locality of his birthplace, he just happened to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He went to all the best schools, received all the best training, and all because his parents were wealthy enough to provide it for him. He should feel very fortunate. But instead, he regards everyone who was less privileged with utter contempt. I just don't understand it._

_You should see the way he treats Max Klinger, our company clerk. What an absolute doll he is. I realize the term "doll" usually applies to women, but if you knew Klinger, you'd excuse my improper usage. He's so cheerful and resilient, even in the midst of this potentially depressing environment. Of course, he's also cunning and sneaky and insane to the less observant, but I like to think of him as clever and resourceful instead. And he's always reliable during a crisis, and handles pressure well. I really don't know what this unit would do without him._

_And of course, I can't forget our dear chaplain, Father Francis Mulcahy. After Dad, he's probably the gentlest soul I've ever met. His sermons are... well, not exactly compelling, but if he preached by example alone, that would be enough. He's so very kind and humble, and not at all sanctimonious. And he has a great sense of humor, and he likes to participate in "jocularity" along with everyone else. Although I have to say, I've found him a bit lax in some areas. He lets the camp get away with murder, with very little talk about divine retribution. Not to mention, he slaughtered me at poker last week! My only consolation is that my losings will be going to the Korean orphans he looks after. Otherwise I'd be pretty ticked off._

Danny had to laugh at this. It was typical of Nellie to participate in such unladylike activities. It wasn't that she herself was unladylike; in fact, she was almost old-fashioned in her manners, sometimes to the point of being comical. It was simply that she had been around men for so much of her life that it didn't even occur to her that playing a game of poker with the guys might seem... well, unseemly.

He'd given up caring long ago. He knew by now that Nellie could look after herself, mostly because she usually had to look after him, as well. As long as she stuck with the priest, anyway, she'd be all right. He shrugged in resignation and read on.

_For the most part, however, they're a wonderful group of people. I hope you've been as fortunate as I have in my assignment. Of course, it's not all poker games and pony rides up here. We get a lot of wounded. A __lot__. It can get disheartening sometimes, when the ambulances and helicopters just keep coming, with no end in sight. You don't know how much of a relief it is for me, knowing that you're stationed down in Pusan, away from all the senseless fighting. I know we're supposed to be here to make conditions better for the South Koreans, but sometimes I wonder if we're even doing any good. Don't tell anyone I said that._

_I could write all night, but I'm afraid I might be disturbing the girls with my lamp. So I will stop for now, and conclude with the obligatory badgering. Behave yourself, or I __will__ find out about it, and I don't want to have to come down there and box your ears. And don't forget to keep your spirits up, and not let this place or this war get to you. If you find yourself getting down in the dumps, just do what Dad always did. Sing._

_Just don't do it in the latrine. People might start to wonder about you._

_Take care, Danny Boy. I love you times a million._

_Love, Nell_

To his embarrassment, Danny felt a lump form in his throat. Tucking the letter away to be read and re-read later, he discreetly wiped at his eyes before his bunkmates noticed the offending tears.

* * *

It was no longer possible to ignore it. Winter was coming. As Charles Winchester stepped out of the Post-Operative Ward into the frosty evening air, he shivered and drew his flimsy jacket tighter around himself to deflect the biting wind. Truth be told, it was not dissimilar to New England at this time of year. The most noteworthy difference was that there was much less precipitation in Korea. Soon there would be a steep drop in temperature, and with it would come an occasional dusting of snow, like a thin layer of powdered sugar, but nothing like the blizzards he had seen in Massachusetts.

The real downpour, he knew, would come in the spring, when the wet season began in earnest. Yet another charming selling point of his little hell away from home.

Shoving his hands deep in his pockets, Charles decided it was high time for a nightcap. It had been a particularly long shift for him in Post-Op. One of the soldiers had had a nightmare and, in the process of thrashing about, had torn his sutures. The other patients had been upset by the incident, and it had taken a great deal to calm them down; in the end, he had been forced to read aloud snippets from the Comics section of the latest _Boston Globe_. A truly thankless task, describing each absurd little cartoon strip. He much prefered Tom and Jerry himself.

Walking briskly across the compound, he arrived at the Officers' Club and pulled the door open. The air was only marginally warmer inside than out, but it was a relief nonetheless. A gaggle of nurses was just leaving, and as he stepped inside, rubbing his hands together, they each greeted him as they passed.

"Good night, Major."

"'Night, sir."

"Excuse us, Major."

"Quite all right," Charles replied cordially as he attempted to navigate through the sea of nurses. "Good night, ladies."

One of the nurses accidentally bumped his elbow. It was the sanctimonious little redhead, Malone. Her eyes widened as they met his. "Oh, I, I'm sorry, Major," she stammered.

"Lieutenant," he said shortly, brushing past her without a second glance.

He thought he heard a sigh behind him, but he merely resumed his course and headed toward his favorite table in the corner. Of course, it could hardly be called a table, being made, as it was, of an old jeep tire, but it was cozy and close to the fire. More importantly, it offered him the sufficient seclusion to drink in peace.

After he ordered a cognac and took the glass from Igor Straminsky, bar tender, mess tent server, and frequent recipient of complaints, Charles settled into his seat at the corner table. Or rather, he started to, but instead found himself sitting on something hard, square, and pointy. Frowning, he shifted in the chair and retrieved the offending object. His pulse quickened when he saw what it was.

It was a battered old hardcover edition of _Twelfth Night_, by none other than William Shakespeare. A classic comedy from the Bard of Avon, and one of Charles's favorite plays. But this certainly was not his copy; in fact, his copy was currently sitting on his shelf back home in Boston. Where on earth had this come from?

He flipped open to the flyleaf, but there was no name. No identifying marks to indicate who the owner might be. Baffled, he took the book up to the bar and tapped it against the counter. "Igor, you wouldn't by any chance happen to know who left this book here, would you?" he asked.

Straminsky paused in the act of drying some shot glasses and squinted at the title. "Nope, sorry, sir. It's been a pretty busy night. I think the entire camp has been in here at some point. It could've been any one of them."

"How singularly unhelpful," Charles said dryly. "Well, if in the event anyone _does_ come in to claim it, be sure and tell them to see me."

"Sure thing, Major."

Shaking his head, Charles returned to his table and sipped his cognac, leafing through the book with curiosity. As he turned the pages, he realized that this particular copy had been read many times. There were passages that had been underlined, and arrows and comments and notations had been scrawled in the margins in a tiny, precise hand. There were even short explanations for archaic terms. The owner, whoever it was, had clearly done his, or _her_, homework. He was amazed that anyone in this camp would love the play enough to research it so thoroughly.

Who could it possibly be?

Still reeling from the pure surprise of finding such a marvel, Charles finished his drink and left the money on the table. Tucking the book carefully inside his coat, he left the Officers' Club and headed for the Swamp.

For the time being, it was mercifully vacant, his tentmates being elsewhere — most likely at Rosie's, plaguing the proprietress. After building up a fire in the little woodstove, he took the book from his jacket and sat down at his desk, turning his lamp to shed more light as he perused the pages yet again, trying to find a glimpse of insight into the owner.

He was almost certain it must be a woman. Aside from the penmanship, which for all its neatness was still remarkably feminine, there were certain underlined passages that gave him clues to the owner's gender. A great deal of them, for example, were uttered by Viola, the play's heroine. The book's owner seemed to be particularly fond of her lines. _"Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we! For such as we are made of, such we be."_ Or, under the guise of her male alter-ego Cesario: _"By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, and that no woman has; nor never none shall mistress be of it, save I alone."_ By God, he'd forgotten how much he loved this play.

But, to the matter at hand: it must undoubtedly be a woman. But which one? Certainly not Margaret; besides, it was not her handwriting. Perhaps it was Lieutenant Kellye. There was definitely more to her than most people would suspect. But no; she abhorred Charles's classical music, and it was reasonable to conclude that she wouldn't be excessively fond of Shakespeare, either. That only left... the remainder of the entire nursing staff. He realized to his secret shame that he really didn't know any of them very well.

He could still, however, discover the identity of this mystery woman. And he knew precisely how.

Removing a sheet of cream-laid stationary paper from his desk drawer, he took up his fountain pen and began to write:

_To the owner of a well-thumbed hardcover edition of Shakespeare's 'Twelfth Night': You may rest easy in the knowledge that your beloved book has been recovered. You may have the same by applying to Major Charles Emerson Winchester._

He paused in consideration, then added:

_The Third._

Satisfied, Charles picked up the paper and exited the Swamp, making a beeline for the bulletin board outside the company clerk's office. After meticulously securing his note to the board with a pushpin in each corner, he stepped back to appraise his work.

_Clear and concise_, he thought with a small smile. Then he turned on his heel and strolled back to the Swamp, to refresh his memory on a superb piece of literature.

* * *

When a song got stuck in Hawkeye Pierce's head, it was difficult to get it out. He had been in Klinger's office, putting in a request for a few days off in Seoul, and the Lebanese lackey had just happened to whistle a few bars from "Puttin' on the Ritz". Now it was lodged in the doorway of his mind, and the only way to get it to leave was by singing it at the top of his lungs.

"If you're blue, and you don't know where to go to, why don't you go where fashion sits?" Hawkeye crooned, kicking open the door of Klinger's office and stepping out into the bright, cold afternoon light, doing a little shuffle as he did so. "Puttin' on the Ritz..."

He trailed off as he noticed a female figure standing outside the office, staring at the bulletin board. It was Malone, the transfer from San Francisco. Or was it Oregon? No, she was _from_ Oregon, but had been stationed in San Francisco. The wild red hair made her extremely easy to identify. He had to admit, she had a pretty cute little figure. She was a sweet kid, he decided, but not exactly supply-room material. Aside from the Brillo-pad hair and the thick glasses, she was just a bit too... intellectual. Not that he had anything against smart women. But Malone took it to a whole new level of nerddom.

Still, Hawkeye liked her sense of humor. And she didn't seem to like Charles much, so that earned her some points in his favor.

He sidled up to her nonchalantly and took up the next verse: "Different types who wear a day coat, pants with stripes and cut-away coat, perfect fits..."

"Puttin' on the Ritz," she muttered faintly, frowning at the bulletin.

Hawkeye noticed the expression of displeasure on her face. "What's eatin' you, Red?"

She gestured to a note which was posted on the board. He quickly ran his eyes over the note, immediately recognizing the fussy handwriting as belonging to Charles. "Huh... _Twelfth Night._ Oh, yeah, yeah. I saw him reading that last night. In fact, he kept me and Beej awake with his stupid lamp." He glanced at the redhead. "Just a wild guess, but is it yours?"

Malone blew out a gale-force sigh. "Of all the people in this camp," she said miserably, "of all the gin joints in the _world_ — Major Winchester just _had_ to be the one to find my book in the Officers' Club. I must have left it in my chair last night." She dragged her hands through her unruly hair. "How perfectly fantastic."

"So?" said Hawkeye with a shrug. "What's the big deal? Just go up to him and ask for it back."

The nurse gave a forced laugh. "No offense, Captain, but easier said than done," she answered bitterly. "He already dislikes me as it is. Although," she added sheepishly, "I'm afraid that's my own fault. I got off on the wrong foot with him."

"With Charles, _either_ foot is the wrong foot," Hawkeye said sententiously.

Malone was not amused. Her brow was furrowed in deliberation, and Hawkeye's first thought was, _Uh-oh._ "Captain," she said, after clearing her throat delicately, "might I trouble you to do me a small favor?"

"Uhh..." he began.

"Would you _please_ get my book back from Major Winchester?" she begged, her hands clasped beseechingly toward him. "Just tell him that it's yours!"

"That's nuts!" Hawkeye exclaimed. "I _live_ with Charles, sister. As reluctant as I am to admit it, he's not an idiot. He knows I don't own any books like that. It would never work."

"Well, then..." Her eyebrows contracted again as the hamsters inside her head raced furiously in their little wheels. "Then tell him you know who the owner is, and offer to give it back to them. He can't object to that!"

Hawkeye barked a laugh. "Are you kidding? Charles doesn't even trust the mice to pick up the crumbs on his side of the Swamp. You think he's gonna trust me with that book?" Malone groaned in frustration. "Look, I'd love to help out, Red, but you read the note for yourself. He wants to meet the owner in person. I heard him babbling something about finally finding a kindred spirit."

Malone hung her head in exaggerated dejection, and he couldn't help but smile. "Don't worry, I'll pray for you," he said, patting her on the back.

She raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that Father Mulcahy's department, Captain?" she asked with a lop-sided smile.

"It's Hawkeye. And trust me, kid, you'll need all the supplication you can get."

"How comforting," she said dryly. "But I'll take it anyway. Thank you, Hawkeye."

He gave a little goodbye wave and watched as she trudged off to the Swamp, then continued on his way, swinging the sash on his bathrobe like an imaginary cane. "Dressed up like a million-dollar trooper..."

* * *

This entire book business was driving Charles to distraction. The morning had come and gone, and as yet, no one had approached him to claim the little volume. He wondered if anyone even looked at the bulletin board. Perhaps he should have made the note larger, more noticeable. Or would that only appear desperate?

He shook his head, taking up the book yet again. It was damned perplexing. How could an individual like the owner of this book even exist without Charles's knowledge? If anyone in this crude, uncivilized den of wolves was a Shakespeare enthusiast, he would be the first to know. For that matter, he would be doing cartwheels across the compound.

And if it was indeed a woman, as he suspected, why should she hesitate in coming to him? He was always civil to the nurses; a perfect gentleman. With the permissible exception of that impertinent little redhead... who had only arrived mere weeks ago...

Oh, dear God.

There was a sudden knock at the door of the Swamp. Charles shot to his feet, secreting the book away under a pile of laundry. He cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn't betray his trepidation. "Enter."

The door swung slowly open, and sure enough, the unwelcome object of his thoughts stepped hesitantly inside. "Major Winchester?" said Lieutenant Malone in her low, peculiar voice.

He resumed his seat, lacing his fingers across his stomach. "Yes, Malone, what is it?" he said with an air of deliberate negligence.

She folded her arms, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but I, umm..." She took a deep breath. "I believe you have my book."

Charles stared openly at her. "_Your_ book."

"Yes, sir."

No. No, no, no, absolutely not. It had to be a joke. She had seen his note on the bulletin board and decided to have a bit of fun at his expense. That was the only explanation. Those painstakingly detailed notations just _couldn't_ be hers. Could they?

"Prove it," he commanded.

Her eyebrows went up. "I beg your pardon?" she asked, to all appearances insulted by his effrontery.

Charles was not swayed. "Well, I can't just _give_ it to you," he explained, as though it were painfully obvious. "I shall need some sort of proof of ownership before I simply hand it off to the first person who comes to me. For all I know, it could be a ruse. Or perhaps someone could have put you up to it. Pierce and/or Hunnicutt come to mind," he added with a scowl.

With an angry expression, Malone started to say something, but apparently thought better of it. Of course. She should have known she couldn't deceive him. No doubt she would slink off to her tent in defeat.

But instead, she shook her head with an air of, oddly enough, self-effacement. "If music be the food of love, play on," she said quietly, raising her eyes to his; "give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die." As Charles gaped at her, she smiled crookedly. "Although the appetite is clinging tenuously to life as it is, after today's spam kebabs."

As he listened to those well-remembered words, Charles felt a ridiculous smile consume his face. "Good God," he blurted in elation. "It _is_ yours."

"Guilty as charged, sir," she replied.

Overcome with embarrassment at his beastly behavior, he rose to his feet and retrieved the book from under the heap of clothes. "I am truly sorry, Malone," he said sincerely. "I am a proud man, as you may have deduced, but I can admit when I am in the wrong. Here is your book, and here," he added, offering his hand to her, "my apologies."

She placed her small hand in his and shook it formally, as if cementing a truce. "Thank you, sir."

Charles watched as Malone took the little book and turned it lovingly in her hands. Something deep inside him was inexplicably warmed by the simple action. "I bought this at a library sale," she said at length. "At the time, my dad had a job at a paper mill that didn't pay much, and my family didn't have the money to spend on luxuries like books. So I would walk to the library every week and check out as many as I could carry home with me. One week I decided I'd give Shakespeare a try, and I absolutely fell in love with this play. I must have checked it out a dozen times." She patted the book reflectively. "So when I saw that the library was selling it, I saved up enough to buy it."

Charles was oddly touched. Money was something he had never gone without, and it would never occur to him that the simple act of purchasing a book might require careful saving. "How old were you?" he asked.

"Fourteen." Malone blushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bore you."

"Not at all. That was a wonderful story." She smiled again, and he could not deny that for all her bookishness, she really did have a rather charming smile. To think, he'd had a fellow admirer of Shakespeare standing right next to him in surgery for weeks and didn't even know it.

_In surgery._ Suddenly it all started to add up. "That was you whistling Mozart in the O.R.," he said in realization, "wasn't it?"

Malone cringed, mortified. "Yes, sir," she admitted. "It's a bad habit of mine; one of many, I'm afraid. Don't worry, I'll try not to do it during surgery."

"No, no, you misunderstand me, Malone," he said quickly. "I'm... I'm not..." He wasn't certain how to put his thoughts into words. "You must know by now that Mozart is as foreign to the people of this camp as... _beans and franks_ would be to the Koreans." He spoke the offending words as if they were a curse. "Appreciation for classical music, and fine literature, for that matter, is simply not found here. So when I heard it in the unlikeliest of places, I... I fear I became a tad overzealous."

Charles stopped, wondering if he was being too personal. But he felt for some strange reason that since she confided in him, he must reciprocate. "What I am attempting to say," he continued, with a droll smile, "is that I give you express permission to whistle to your heart's content, as long as it is Mozart."

She returned his smile. "I actually prefer Dvořák," she whispered confidentially, raising a hand to her mouth.

"Also acceptable," he said with a chuckle. And then, remembering he was a Winchester, he chivalrously pulled out his chair and gestured toward it. "Please, sit down and tell me about some of your other favorite literary gems."

"Oh. All right." She took the proffered seat. "Thank you, sir."

He sat down on the edge of his cot across from her. He had so many questions, he hardly knew where to begin. "Have you read any of the Bard's other comedies? _Much Ado About Nothing_ is a personal favorite of mine."

"Oh, yes, it's one of my favorites, too..." Malone looked down at the book in her hands for a moment before clearing her throat. "Major?"

"Yes?"

"It's nice to finally meet you."

Charles looked at her for a moment before comprehending what she meant. He smiled again. "The pleasure is mine, Malone," he said.

* * *

A/N: Dang, I wish I always wrote this fast. This story would be completed in no time. Well, that's it for Chapter Four. I publicly apologize for the lack of Klinger. No one's sorrier than I am. But you'll notice Charles was significantly nicer this time around. We need reminders every now and then of how much better he is than Frank. And at least he and Nellie are getting along. For now. I can't guarantee that it's permanent. In fact, the forecast calls for dark clouds in the near future. Because hey, I'm a jerk that way! Anyway, hope you like it so far. Be sure and take the time to review before you leave.

Great, now _I_ have "Puttin' on the Ritz" stuck in my head.

-Octopus


	5. About a 42 Extra Pompous

A/N: To those who reviewed, my deepest thanks! You make me inordinately happy. I've had a lot of things vying for my free time lately, not least of all my best friend getting married. I had no idea being the maid of honor was so much work! I'm still freaking out over whether my dress will be ready in time. Guh. So I'm going to take this opportunity to sit down and unwind by writing this chapter. The upshot is, you get to read it. Everyone wins!

Disclaimer: Even if you look closely at the credits after each episode of _M*A*S*H_, you will not find my name anywhere.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Five: About a 42 Extra Pompous

It wasn't that he resented B.J. for it. He just didn't understand it. Hawkeye enjoyed a good piece of correspondence from his father or an old friend as much as the next guy. But this was ridiculous. Seriously, how was it possible for a man read and re-read a letter _ad infinitum_ and still laugh and grin and act for all the world like it was the first time he was reading the stupid thing?

"Listen to this," B.J. was saying, stretched out on his cot with his legs crossed and his shoes off, displaying the holes in his socks. "Peg's sitting there at her nightstand, putting on her favorite shade of raspberry-red lipstick, and Erin waddles over to her and says, 'Jam?'" He chuckled. "She thought Peg was putting jam on her face! Isn't that the sweetest?"

"I can almost feel the cavities forming," Hawkeye muttered, listlessly folding his undershirts and setting them on his cot. Eleven hours in surgery and he was doing laundry when by all rights he should be in Seoul, making face time with a feather mattress. Could this war get any worse?

"So the next day, Erin's in her high chair eating applesauce, and Peg turns her back for a second, and there's Erin with applesauce slathered all over her face. And she looks up at Peg, and says, 'Pretty?' She sent a picture and everything!" B.J. laughed again, slapping the letter against his chest. "What a beaut."

"She'll be asking Mr. DeMille for her close-up in no time." Hawkeye rolled a pair of mismatched socks carelessly into a ball and threw it into a corner. "I've got this funny feeling."

"Next time, pass on the cole slaw."

Hawkeye shuddered in revulsion. "Our slaw should be against the law," he replied, removing a pair of olive drab pants from his makeshift clothesline. "No, no, I mean, I've got a funny feeling I've heard this story before. As in, yesterday at breakfast. And possibly the dinner before that. Which was luckily reconstituted in time for breakfast."

B.J. gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry, I guess I just couldn't remember if I told it to you."

"I'm not so sure you can remember reading it," said Hawkeye. "You're probably not aware, but this is officially the eighty-four thousandth time you've laughed at that delightful little anecdote. Senility's not a pretty thing, Beej. On the plus side, though, that story will be the talk of the rest home."

"Hey, we all have our own ways of dealing with stress," his tentmate countered. "Colonel Potter has his painting. Father Mulcahy has his boxing. Charles has that racket he likes to call music. You have your regular sampling of the nurse _du jour_. And I have my letters. I can't help it if my family is so adorable."

Hawkeye sighed in defeat. "You're incurably wholesome, you know that?"

"Don't forget terminally indifferent," B.J. added helpfully.

"Yeah, yeah." Speaking of amnesia, Hawkeye couldn't remember if that last pair of pants were clean and he'd done a bad job folding them, or if they were dirty and had simply fallen neatly. "Where is Charles, by the way? Shouldn't he be telling us to shut our proverbial pie-holes by now?"

B.J. shrugged. "Don't ask me. I was never one to question a good thing."

As if on cue, the surgeons heard a dry, ironic chuckle drift toward them from somewhere outside the Swamp. "Ah, speak of the deviled ham," said Hawkeye, raising his eyebrows.

"You are incorrigible, Malone," Charles was saying as he paused just beyond the door of the tent. "That is precisely why Shaw wrote the play the way he did: to avoid the stereotypical and entirely clichéd 'happy ending'."

"I know _why_ he wrote it that way, Major," came the low, pleasantly sedate voice of Lieutenant Malone. Hawkeye silently edged closer to the door to better hear the conversation, earning an amused look from B.J. "And I don't have anything against an unconventional ending. In fact, it was a bold move on his part. All I'm saying is that _Pygmalion_ — at least, the original version — _did_ end well, and I see no reason why Shaw should have departed from it. Personally, I think there's something to be said for tradition."

"Of course you do," Charles replied indulgently. "Forgive me, I'd forgotten I was speaking to the most sentimental woman in this camp."

Peering inconspicuously through the little window, Hawkeye saw the petite redhead give Charles a light swat on the arm. To his surprise, the Bostonian didn't seem to mind. "So, am I to assume you're no longer interested in my inventory?" she inquired nonchalantly.

Hawkeye pricked up his ears at this.

"Now, now, let's not be hasty," Charles said quickly. He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. "What have you got for me?" he asked in a low voice. Hawkeye rubbed his hands together in delight. Things were certainly getting juicy.

Malone laughed. "Would the major be interested in... something in a Brönte, maybe?"

Charles made a little sound of displeasure. "Which Brönte?" he asked guardedly.

"Charlotte. Ever read _Jane Eyre_?"

Hawkeye experienced the sudden urge to rip his hair out. Ye Gods, these two were boring.

"I take it you're referring to the story of the unlovely little governess?" Charles was saying in a skeptical tone. "I believe I'll pass. The subject matter is a bit too feminine for my tastes."

"Oh, yes, of course," Malone said, nodding in understanding. "I take it you're also too macho for mystery and madness."

There was a short pause. "Mystery and... madness?" Charles repeated.

"And more," she said with her silly lopsided smile.

The tall surgeon cleared his throat. "On second thought," he said, returning her smile, "I suppose, at the very least, I could give it a fair chance."

"Hey, Beej," whispered Hawkeye. "I can't tell. Are they flirting or starting a book club?" B.J. merely shrugged.

"Very enlightened of you, sir," the little nurse said graciously. "I'll have it for you at breakfast tomorrow."

"_Mille grazie_," Charles returned with a very gentlemanly half-bow. "Sleep well, Malone."

"And you, Major."

Belatedly Hawkeye became aware of his compromising position. He dove for his cot just as Charles came in out of the bitter wind, rumpling his newly folded clothes in the process. "Well, Chuck, did you two have fun at the ice cream social?" he asked lazily, his chin on his fist.

Charles, however, was by now an expert at ignoring his comments. "Good evening, children," he said calmly, removing his heavy coat and draping it over his chair. "Isn't it past your bed time?"

"Aww, gee whiz, Pop," whined B.J. "It's not even a school night!"

Hawkeye rolled off his cot and began fussily arranging his wrinkled laundry. "Speaking of children," he said in an off-hand fashion, "have you and Red picked out names for your kids yet?"

"Yep," B.J. said brightly. "Dexter and Poindexter."

Hawkeye burst out laughing until he had to hold his sides in agony. Charles raised an eyebrow, but merely began unbuttoning his shirt with a methodical precision. "I assume by your tremendously creative soubriquet that you are referring to Lieutenant Malone?" he asked after the gangly physician had recovered.

"Fats Winchester and Mousy Malone," Hawkeye said dreamily, clasping his bony hands together. "It'll be in all the society papers. Although I gotta say, she's a little young for you, Charles."

"Not to mention a little _little_," B.J. added.

Charles removed his overshirt and pulled on his striped dressing gown, remaining infuriatingly cool and unruffled by their ribbing. "Jest all you like, gentlemen, but I fear I must disappoint you. Malone and I are merely colleagues who share many of the same interests. Nothing more."

"Uh-huh, sure." Giving up any semblance of tidiness, Hawkeye gathered all his clothes into his arms and dumped them unceremoniously in his foot locker. "Tell me, Chahhls, do you meet all your colleagues three times a week in the Officers' Club to discuss poetry and gaze at them wistfully over your cognac?"

At last he succeeded in eliciting a glare from the Bostonian. "Pierce, you really do give boorishness a bad name," he said, annoyed. "Have you any idea how refreshing it is to speak to someone without watching their eyes glaze over in incomprehension? Do you know how exceedingly rare it is to come across a mind like Lieutenant Malone's?" He smiled slightly. "Granted, she did not attend any of the more prestigious universities. But then again, she was never tainted by the opinions of narrow-minded tutors or professors. One could almost say that in many respects, she is essentially self-taught. As a result, her ideas are..." He paused feelingly. "Raw. Personal. Exhilirating."

"Ah," Hawkeye mused, "the Winchester in heat."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention," said B.J. "My eyes were too busy glazing over in incomprehension."

For a moment it looked to Hawkeye as if Charles might finally lose his temper. But he simply took a deep, steadying breath and closed his eyes. "As difficult as it may be for you two hormonal baboons to understand," he said loftily, "it is actually quite possible to achieve friendship with a member of the fairer sex _without_ succumbing to the urge to drag her by the hair to one's cave."

Hawkeye grunted. "Me think Charles full of Boston-baked beans."

"Me not think," B.J. answered. "Me know. Me can smell them."

Charles shuddered and settled onto his bunk with a book in his hand. "Simpletons," he muttered under his breath.

Outside in the compound, Hawkeye heard a slightly nasal baritone singing in Arabic. It grew progressively louder, until there was a light rap on the door, and Maxwell Klinger's battering ram of a beak advanced into the Swamp, followed by the rest of him. "_Masa' al khair_, Captains and Major," he said blithely, waltzing into the tent in his floor-length fur coat.

"_Messy camel hair_ to you, too," B.J. returned affably, wiggling his big toe in greeting.

"Klinger, you know very well you're not allowed to bring animals inside officers' quarters," said Charles, eyeing the corporal's coat with a smirk.

The clerk wrapped the garment tighter around himself. "I'm sorry if my appearance offends, _effendi_," he said with dignity. "Not all of us are privileged to possess a natural layer of insulation."

Charles mumbled something about being surrounded by imbeciles, but Hawkeye grinned. "Pull up a cot and have a drink, Klinger," he said genially. "I guarantee you it'll warm you up better than our lousy excuse for a fire."

"A thousand thanks." Klinger fell inelegantly onto Hawkeye's bunk, shivering. "I'm thinking of moving somewhere nice and hot, if this war ever ends. Like the surface of the sun."

"Surely you haven't forsaken dear old Toledo already?" B.J. asked incredulously.

"Never!" Klinger made a 'T' sign reverently across his heart. "But you gotta admit, someone with such a lovely olive complexion as myself was not made for these conditions." He extended his gloved hands toward the little wood stove and rubbed them together vigorously. "I think I've got chilblains. And I don't even know what chilblains are."

Hawkeye picked up a glass and poured one of his infamous martinis — two parts gin and one part gin. "The good news is, I doubt you have chilblains," he said as he passed the drink to him. "The bad news is, you may shortly have necrosis of the liver."

"Here's hoping," Klinger replied, tossing it back. "Boy," he added with a cough, "I thought you doctors were supposed to heal people, not poison them."

"Puritan," B.J. chided. Hawkeye thought he saw Charles smile behind his book.

Setting his glass aside, Klinger reached into an inner pocket of his fur coat. "Speaking of good news," he said with a toothy grin, "have I got a whopper for you, Hawkeye."

"I've been dishonorably discharged?"

"Not _quite_ that good." He pulled out of crumpled piece of paper and smoothed it out formally. "Your request for a weekend pass just came back. Approved." His grin widened. "You're hereby granted three days' R-and-R in Seoul."

"What?" Charles exclaimed indignantly, his book falling to the ground with a flutter.

"Yeah, what?" echoed B.J. in a similar tone.

Hawkeye burst out into a paroxysm of laughter, slapping his thigh in pure glee. "Hot damn, there is a God!" he shouted, dancing around the tent. "Another drink for my swarthy Mercury!"

"No, no, no more for me," Klinger said quickly, waving his hands. "My brain doesn't enjoy feeling like pickled garlic. Anyway, you leave tomorrow morning, so you'd better go easy on the booze. And start packing now, 'cause it ain't gonna be my fault if you put it off 'til the last second."

"'Ain't gonna be my fault,'" Charles repeated slowly, as if in awe. "Where does one learn such speech, I wonder? The dog races? These so-called 'hoe-downs' I keep hearing about?"

"This sure is a fine how-do-you-do," said B.J., clearly peeved. "We work our fingers to the bone every day in this place, just like Hawk. How come his requests for time off are always approved before ours? Because he's been here longer?"

Charles sighed in resignation, reached down, and picked up his book. "I suppose there is a silver lining to this dreary stormcloud," he said dryly. "For the next three days, there will be one less person to annoy me."

"Give me a little credit, Charles," Hawkeye replied, throwing open the lid of his foot locker and pulling out his wrinkled clothing. "We both know I annoy you with the skill of ten people."

* * *

It was true Nellie hadn't had much of an idea of what to expect when she came to the 4077th MASH. For one thing, she hadn't fully expected the eccentricities of the people she would be working with. Everyone had their odd traits, of course, but some of the residents of this particular unit could write a book on the subject of oddness. Not that she minded; in her opinion, odd would always trump boring.

And she certainly had not expected to come to like them so much. But in spite of her usual ineptitude at making friends, she had managed to become close to quite a few. She enjoyed Lieutenant Kellye's company immensely; she was a member of that rare breed of people who seemed to know instinctively how to put everyone at ease. Nellie had also taken a great liking to Father Mulcahy, and not just because he was Irish. Things had been a bit touch-and-go at first with Major Winchester, but she could see she had been a little quick to judge him, and was actually rather partial to his company. And she was acutely aware of an almost inordinate fondness for Klinger, and she knew he was the oddest of them all. Perhaps that was what drew him to her in the first place.

But if there was one thing she definitely had not counted on, it was a petting zoo.

"And what's this one's name?" she asked, pointing to the cage in the middle, which held a small guinea pig that sat nibbling industriously at a piece of lettuce.

Klinger leaned in and took a look at the animal inside. "That's Dopey," he replied. His words came out in visible puffs of steam in the cold air. "He's all right, for a furball. Not like that other one that's always getting out, Babette. She's a regular Houdini."

"Can I hold him?"

"I don't see why not."

Unlatching the door of the hutch, he reached in, picked up the little rodent, and passed it to Nellie. It began squealing in alarm, but she pressed it close to her body, making soft hushing sounds. "Easy, kiddo," she said, stroking it gently. Its fur was long and rust-red and unkempt. As a fellow redhead, Nellie felt an instant kinship with it.

Before long the animal quieted down. Klinger was smiling. "Lieutenant Malone, the guinea pig whisperer."

"I've already told you, Klinger, call me Nellie." She gestured to the array of animals inside the hutches. There were rabbits, guinea pigs, mice, a tortoise, even a skunk. "Where did this menagerie come from, anyway?" she asked.

"One word: Radar."

"Your predecessor?"

He nodded. "Radar's an animal lover. Just nuts about them. He couldn't stand the sight of anyone mistreating an animal, no matter how weird or unlovable or potentially delicious. I'll never forget the time he shipped a lamb back to his family farm in Iowa, just to save it from being served to the camp for dinner. Luckily, everyone was so bombed on o_uzo_ that they barely noticed." He grinned in remembrance. "He had the discharge papers filled out and everything. For Private Lamb."

Nellie laughed. "I wish I could have met Radar."

Klinger reached up and scratched the guinea pig behind its velvety ears. It made a strange chattering sound similar to a purr. "Yeah, I wish you could've, too." He looked up at her, and his smile was warm. "I have a feeling he would've thought you were pretty nifty, Nellie."

She blushed and tried to shrug off the compliment. "Oh, don't be silly," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "Now," she continued, changing the subject, "tell me the names of the rest of these characters."

_"_Attenzione_, all personnel,"_ came the now-familiar voice over the P.A. system, _"Incoming wounded, ambulances and choppers. Time to do the _ballo alla dottori_."_

Klinger groaned. "Guess the introductions will have to wait," he said as he took the guinea pig out of her arms and deposited it in its hutch. "Duty calls." Nellie sighed as she ran alongside him to meet the ambulances.

As she scrubbed at the washing station amid the flurry of doctors and nurses donning their surgical attire, Nellie began to sense something was amiss. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, until Major Winchester spoke behind his mask:

"Somehow I suspect that Pierce knew we would be inundated with casualties, and cunningly contrived to be absent from the ordeal."

_That_ was what was different, she realized. Hawkeye was nowhere in sight. "Where _is_ Captain Pierce, sir?" she asked.

"His Churlishness is in Seoul at this very moment, laughing at all of us, I daresay," Winchester replied in his languid, upper-class Boston Brahmins drawl. "No matter, we shall do very well without him. At the very least, the O.R. will be a great deal quieter in his absence."

Nellie frowned. "I hope you're right," she said, referring to his penultimate remark. "I took a look at the patients lined up in triage. We've definitely got our hands full."

"Now, don't you fret none, little lady," said B.J., tying his mask on. "We've been short-handed before, but we always manage."

Suddenly Nellie heard Klinger clear his throat in the doorway. "Uh, I'd consider withdrawing that last statement, Captain," he said in a low tone.

At the washing station, Colonel Potter finished sterilizing his hands and shut off the faucet with his elbow. "What's the matter, son?"

"I've just come from Major Houlihan's tent, sir," the clerk announced dismally. "She's laid up with the flu."

There were collective groans of dismay. "Whatever next?" muttered Winchester.

"All right, nobody panic," Potter said firmly. "We'll just need a little extra help, is all. Corporal, scrub up. We'll be requiring the services of your hands."

"_Me_, sir?" Klinger blurted.

"_Him_, sir?" Winchester exclaimed.

"Yes, _you_. And tell the padre and the other corpsmen to do the same. Don't worry, we'll tell you what to do every step of the way. No one's going to leave you high and dry." Potter turned to the surgeons, his eyebrows raised. "Are we, boys?"

His tone allowed no room for argument. "Perish the thought," Winchester said reluctantly.

"Good. Now let's move, people. Our public awaits."

Nellie followed the surgeons into the Operating Room, her heart pounding in trepidation. The medics were already lifting the patients from the gurneys and placing them gently but quickly onto the operating tables. With Pierce and Houlihan out of the equation, and the almost endless line of casualties waiting outside in Pre-Op, she had no idea how they were going to pull this off. It didn't seem possible.

As she tied Winchester's surgical gown behind his back, she took a deep breath, trying to steady her trembling hands. _This is insane,_ she thought.

But as it turned out, the situation was not as desperate as she had anticipated. The surgeons were calm and proficient as always, the nurses swift and capable. And the corpsmen stepped in and helped out whenever assistance was needed, without a word of complaint. They frankly deserved a round of applause.

It wasn't until the boy with the leg wound came in that everything fell apart.

Nellie was preoccupied with clearing away the used surgical instruments and putting on a clean pair of gloves when the patient was wheeled into the O.R. and deposited in front of Winchester. Then she turned and stared down at the table.

"Oh, my God," she blurted.

"He knows," Father Mulcahy said quietly.

Blood was literally everywhere. It was on the clothes of the medic who had brought him in, on the stretcher on which he had been carried, and now leaking onto the operating table. His left leg appeared as if it had been chewed on by a bear. Or maybe twelve. It was almost nauseating to look at.

"Malone," said Winchester, softly. "Gloves, please. And quickly."

Nellie composed herself as well as she could and stretched a fresh pair of gloves over his hands.

"We'll need to stop the bleeding before we can proceed any further. Clamp."

She looked down at the instrument tray, and her stomach twisted in dismay. "All the clamps have been used. They're in the autoclave."

"Damn," he said under his breath. "All right. I need you to take those forceps there, and apply pressure to the femoral artery. But for God's sake, be careful. We need it closed off, not severed."

"Yes, Doctor." Swallowing hard, she gently took hold of the artery above the rupture and slowly began to squeeze it, millimeter by millimeter. Finally the hemorrhaging started to abate, and she felt her tense shoulders gradually relax. "I think I've got it."

"Good girl. Now, I'm going to attempt to repair some of the damage sustained to the sciatic nerve. But first I'll need suction."

Nellie felt a cold sweat break out on her brow. "Uhh..."

"What's the problem?"

"I can't let go of the artery, sir," she explained. "I'm holding on with both hands just to keep the pressure steady."

"Well, I cannot operate if I can't see what I'm doing," he said, frustrated.

Out of the corner of her eye, Nellie saw Corporal Klinger passing by with an armload of lap sponges. "Klinger!" she shouted. "Get over here, we need you."

"What do you think you're doing, Malone?" demanded Winchester.

"I can't clean the wound without letting go of the artery, and you can't operate unless the wound is cleaned," she said as Klinger hesitantly came to stand beside her. "We need a third set of hands. Klinger, pick up the suction there."

The tall surgeon glared down at her. "Klinger, don't move a muscle. Malone will apply suction."

"_No_, Malone _won't_," Nellie replied angrily. "This kid is barely hanging on, sir. If I let go of this artery, he's going to start losing blood faster than we can get it into him. In short, he'll die. Klinger, suction."

The clerk picked up the device, clearly terrified. Above his mask, Winchester's pale blue eyes were burning with rage. "Now look here, Malone," he said furiously. "I gave you an order. I will not have you undermining my command, is that clear?"

"Winchester," said Colonel Potter, "cork it. I outrank you, and I'm ordering _you_ to swallow your pride and let the boy help."

Nellie nudged the corporal with her elbow. "It's okay, Klinger," she said quietly. "Just put the tip right there, where all the blood has collected."

For a moment, Klinger's gaze darted nervously from Winchester's glowering face to the patient on the table. Then he took the suction and began carefully removing the fluid from the wound. "That's it," Nellie whispered. "Not too fast. That's perfect, Klinger. You're doing great."

He released a shaky breath. "Thanks," he said tensely. Beneath his natural tan, his face was pale and moist with perspiration. But his dark eyes never left his task, and his hands were steady as a rock.

"All right, that's got it," Nellie told him. "You can put down the suction. Now, see that instrument on the tray with the long, skinny tines?"

Klinger pointed at it with a bloody finger. "This one here?"

She nodded. "Pass that to Major Winchester."

He did as he was told, holding the implement out for the surgeon. Winchester raised his eyes to meet Nellie's, and she was taken aback by the hostility she saw in them. And then, silently, he took the tool from Klinger and began to go to work on the nerve damage.

Nellie's eyes widened as she realized she had been unconsciously tightening her hold on the forceps. Quickly she let up on the pressure, letting out the breath she had been holding.

* * *

_God, what a night,_ Klinger thought as he collapsed in front of the bar in the Officers' Club. In all his life, he couldn't recall getting so tired from standing in one place. One thing was for sure, though: he had a newfound respect for the surgeons and nurses who spent hours at a time in front of those operating tables, putting mangled people back together again. He didn't know how they did it.

"Igor," he said wearily, "give me a whiskey-and-soda. And hold the soda."

Straminsky eyed him skeptically. "I don't know, Klinger. You look like a poster child for dyspepsia. You sure you wouldn't rather have an Alka-and-Seltzer instead?"

He shook his head, too exhausted to come up with a witty rejoinder. Straminsky shrugged, poured a drink, and slid it in front of him. "I'll miss you, Klinger," he said regretfully.

Klinger barely noticed. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing blood.

He even failed to notice when Nellie Malone came in, spotted him at the end of the bar, and claimed the bar stool beside him. It was not until she lightly touched his arm that he became aware of her presence. "Oh," he said, looking up at her smiling face, "hi, Lieutenant."

"Nellie," she insisted.

He smiled tiredly. "Nellie."

"I wanted to tell you what a fantastic job you did in surgery," she told him in her low, soothing voice. "I don't know what we would've done without you."

Klinger's face grew warm at her praise. He was so accustomed to getting chewed out for doing something wrong, he didn't realize he'd forgotten what it was like to be commended for doing something _right_. "Thanks, Nellie," he said gratefully.

She gave his arm a friendly squeeze. "Don't mention it." She caught Straminsky's eye and waved him over. "May I have a beer, please, Igor?"

"Sure thing, Lieutenant." He uncapped a bottle and placed it in front of her.

"Thanks."

Klinger felt himself smile as he watched the pint-sized nurse sip her beer delicately. Her fatigues were rumpled, her messy red hair was coming out of its loose bun, and she had dark circles under her eyes behind her glasses, but she held her beer like a teacup, with her little finger raised. _She's a class act_, he thought affectionately.

Nellie noticed him grinning at her and raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly do you find so amusing?" she asked crisply. Her lips were twitching, like she was trying not to smile.

He shook his head, still grinning. "You're as cute as a bug's ear, you know that?"

Now it was her turn to blush. "Cut it out, Klinger," she said half-jokingly, examining the wall behind the bar with sudden, intense interest.

As she turned her profile toward him, Klinger let his eyes drift over her features, admiring her smooth white skin, her small but full lips, her little ski-jump of a nose. God, she really was cute. So cute he wanted to squeeze the stuffing out of her. And that was just for starters.

Suddenly the door of the Officers' Club banged open, and Major Winchester stormed in like a man possessed. Tension soared as the other patrons turned to watch. Beside Klinger, Nellie stiffened. "Oh, crumbs," she muttered.

"Malone." Winchester flung the name out like a curse.

She cleared her throat. "Yes, Major?" she said, more calmly than Klinger would have expected.

He stalked toward her, and a sea of officers and enlisted men parted before him. "You..." For a moment, he seemed to be too furious to put words together. "You deliberately — _wantonly_ — disobeyed my direct command. What have you to say for yourself?"

Nellie set down her beer very carefully and stood up to face him, or rather, face his chest. "You're right, sir," she said quietly. "I did disobey you. I'm sorry for that." She raised her eyes to meet his. "But I'm not sorry I decided that a soldier's life was more important than your ego."

Klinger realized he was grinning like an idiot. He watched as Winchester's face rather impressively turned several shades of red. "How _dare_ you?" he seethed. "You humiliated me in a room full of people! In front of our commanding officer! Do you mean to tell me you are utterly unrepentant?"

"That's precisely what I'm telling you, _sir_," she answered, clearly irritated. "That boy would have bled out if we hadn't gotten assistance from Klinger, who, by the way, did an _excellent_ job. I'm not going to apologize for making that call."

"It was _not_ your call to make, it was mine," he snarled back.

"Oh, well, forgive me, my liege," Nellie said sarcastically. "I must have forgotten about Winchester's First Law of Physics: everything in the universe revolves around _you_."

There were chuckles from some of the other patrons. Winchester was very quiet for a moment. "And to think," he finally said in a low voice, "to _think_ I'd nearly succeeded in convincing myself that I'd finally found a kindred spirit in this abode of the damned. Someone who actually shared my passion for grace and culture and beauty. But I was misled. Wasn't I?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "You're nothing but a petulant child, aren't you?"

"Hey, now wait a minute, sir!" Klinger rose from his stool to stand protectively beside the diminutive nurse. "That's no way to talk to a lady."

"Keep your prodigious proboscis out of this, Klinger," the major snapped.

"Oh, shut _up_, Winchester!" Nellie suddenly exploded, her small fists clenched at her sides. "Give it a rest! Nobody here is impressed by your education, or your credentials, or even your formidable command of the English language! Or haven't you noticed that you don't have a single friend in this camp?"

The Officers' Club suddenly fell silent.

"You seem to care so much about sophistication and refinement and breeding," she continued, "but what you don't realize is that none of it is worth anything if you don't have a heart." She slowly shook her head. "You know... I kind of feel sorry for you, Major."

Winchester merely stared at her, too enraged to speak. Klinger stood stock-still, rooted to the floor, as Nellie laid the money for her beer on the counter. Then she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Good night, Klinger," she said quietly, before turning and striding out the door.

The patrons of the Officers' Club burst into spontaneous applause. Slowly, Klinger raised a hand to his face, heaving a sigh. Winchester continued to stare at the door, white with fury. "That woman," he finally choked out, "is insufferable."

Klinger glared at him. "That woman is an angel!" he replied indignantly. "And I'll thank _you_ not to talk that way about the future Mrs. Maxwell Q. Klinger!"

"Congratulations," Winchester said flatly, sliding onto a bar stool and leaning forward on his arms. "May you live happily ever after... somewhere far away from me."

* * *

A/N: Aww, and they were getting along so well. I know, I'm a total jerk. But it's more fun this way. Yay, tension! It's what makes the fanfiction world go round. If you can restrain yourself from throwing rotten vegetation, I'd love a review. Angry reviews are not desired, but expected.

-Octopus


	6. A Rather Serious Faux Pas

A/N: Oh my gosh, you guys are outstanding. Such kind reviews, even though I raked Charles over the coals again! _Mille grazie!_ You certainly are very forgiving. You don't know how much it means to me that you're enjoying my story even a tenth as much as I'm enjoying writing it. I guess it's pretty obvious that I love _M*A*S*H_ and its characters to death. I'd hate to think I was getting any of their personalities wrong. So far you seem to think I'm doing a satisfactory job, but if I start to become lax in that area, don't hesitate to tell me. Seriously. I'm not kidding.

And now, enough of my blathering. On to Chapter Six. But first!

Disclaimer: Everyone knows I don't own _M*A*S*H_. This is a mere formality, so I don't get sued. But somehow I suspect its creators have better things to do.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Six: A Rather Serious Faux Pas

Standing in line for breakfast in the mess tent was a little like Russian roulette. It was a potentially dangerous enterprise. Most of the time, the food looked deceptively innocuous, and there was no way of knowing what was harmless and what would prove detrimental to your digestive system until you put it in your mouth.

Of course, Hawkeye Pierce subscribed to the old Smell-and-Tell method, but it wasn't always a reliable test. Not to mention, he usually got exasperated looks from his fellow officers whenever he lifted his tray to his nose for inspection. Not that he cared.

On this particular morning, the aroma wafting from the buffet line brought to mind an unappealing amalgam of stale popcorn, rotten cabbage, and motor oil. Hawkeye sighed forlornly, remembering the breakfasts he had had delivered to his room every morning in Seoul. Those luscious, fluffy eggs, that crispy bacon, those golden hash browns... The very memory made him slaver at the mouth all over again.

He picked up his toast and hit it against the side of his tray with a loud _crack!_ As far as homecomings went, he wasn't impressed.

Everyone else, on the other hand, seemed to Hawkeye to be having an annoyingly good day. Particularly the man standing directly behind him in the food line.

"What a day it has been, what a rare mood I'm in," Klinger sang rapturously as he stood in line beside him in his tattered fur coat, "why, it's almost like being in love..."

"Boy, I wish you weren't so gloomy all the time," Hawkeye said as a quivering, gelatinous mass of rehydrated eggs were deposited on his tray. Suddenly he yelped as the corporal elbowed him mischievously in the ribs. "What in the hell is going on with you, Klinger? Has somebody been tinkering with your thyroid?"

"Captain, today is a red-letter day," the Lebanese announced with a beatific smile. "And since I like you, I'm gonna let you in on my little secret."

Absently, Hawkeye picked a piece of lint off the man's fur coat. "You finally got your Section Eight?"

"God, no! You think I'd be keeping something like that a secret?" Klinger said incredulously. "I'd be holding a toilet-paper-tape parade!"

"Then what?"

The corporal beckoned, and Hawkeye leaned in close to him. "An angel has come to earth," he whispered confidingly, "and she's stationed in this camp."

"Oh yeah?" Hawkeye paused in his diversion of wiggling his eggs back and forth on his tray and looked around the mess tent, his interest piqued. "Don't tell me we got another new nurse while I was gone."

Klinger shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that," he replied as they drifted over to the nearest table and sat down. "She's been here for a while, only I never really noticed her much until now. To think," he added wonderingly, "she's been right under my nose this whole time."

"I don't blame her. It's a good place to hide." Hawkeye took a sip of his coffee and winced. "Well, who is it? Out with it already. If I had any life left in me, the suspense would be killing it."

At that moment the door of the mess tent swung open on its decaying hinges, and Lieutenant Malone stumbled in out of the cold, clutching her flimsy military-issue coat which was about twelve sizes too big for her. Hawkeye grinned as he watched her stomp her heavy boots, trying to restore the circulation to her feet. However, she only succeeded in causing her glasses to slip down her nose.

His smile of amusement faded as he turned and caught the look on Klinger's face. "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes," the clerk said dreamily.

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Come on. You're joking, right? Your seraphic sweetheart is none other than our own Mousy Malone?"

Klinger frowned, clearly offended. "That's not her name. And so what if it is? Why's that so hard to believe?"

The surgeon chuckled, prodding at his eggs. "No disrespect intended, Klinger, but your taste in women has always been a little... suspect."

"Oh, is that so?" Klinger said indignantly. "Well, if you knew her like I do, you wouldn't be saying that." He gazed longingly across the mess tent at the nurse as she stood in the buffet line, rubbing her hands together. "I'll have you know, that while you were in Seoul getting pie-faced, she stood up to Major Winchester in front of half the camp."

"Ahhh." Now he understood. The incident of which Klinger spoke had been something of a _cause célèbre_ at the 4077th ever since Hawkeye had returned. Not only had mild-mannered little Lieutenant Malone surprised everyone by ignoring Charles's direct order in the O.R. _and_ getting away with it, but by giving Charles the verbal dressing-down of a lifetime in the Officers' Club. If the story hadn't been corroborated by several other residents of the compound, Hawkeye wouldn't have believed a word of it.

"All I can say is, I'm sorry I missed it," he said.

B.J. wandered over and slumped onto the bench beside him. "Missed what now?" he asked with a jaw-popping yawn.

"The execution of King Charles the Worst," Hawkeye replied. "Or at least, his ego."

"Mmm. Mm-hmm." B.J. nodded around a mouthful of floppy, decades-old bacon. "I was in Post-Op at the time, but I witnessed the after-effects later that night in the Swamp. King Charles was not a happy tyrant."

"Boy, you guys should have seen her," Klinger said proudly, puffing out his chest like a pigeon. "She was terrific. Absolutely fearless. She just stood up, looked the major straight in the eye — no easy task for her, by the way — and told him exactly where he could stuff his synonyms." He grinned. "Not in so many words, of course."

"Of course," said B.J. with a knowing smile. "And of course, this has nothing to do with the fact that she kissed you."

"Oh-_ho!_" Hawkeye crowed in delight. "Malone _kissed_ you? Now we're getting somewhere."

Klinger kicked him under the table. "Would you keep it down? Sheesh, they say _I_ have a big mouth!" He looked around before he spoke again. "She did _not_ kiss me. I'll have you know, it was nothing more than a friendly peck on the cheek." He cleared his throat. "Needless to say, I haven't gotten around to washing it yet."

"Our hairy little girl is growing up," B.J. said wistfully.

Watching Malone across the mess tent, the swarthy clerk heaved a lovesick sigh. "Isn't she the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen?"

Hawkeye twisted around on the bench to glance inconspicuously at the nurse in question. He just couldn't understand what Klinger saw in her. With her pixie-like features and head-to-toe green fatigues, she bore a striking resemblance to something that he couldn't quite place at first. Then it struck him. "She looks like a myopic Christmas elf," he decided.

"What are you, crazy?" Klinger exclaimed.

"You're the authority, you tell us," B.J. answered.

"Just look at her!" the corporal insisted. "Look at that saucy little figure, those cupid's-bow lips. And those eyes! Have you _seen_ her eyes?"

"Yes, I've seen her eyes," said Hawkeye, exasperated. "They're green. _Army_ green. Just like everything else in this crummy place."

Klinger humphed. "Shows how much you know," he said, lifting his nose in the air. "Her eyes are a light sage, with flecks of gold."

B.J. chuckled softly. "Well, we'll leave you to drown in her eyes. All I want to know is how she managed to render Charles speechless. You know, for future reference."

But Hawkeye shook his head in disappointment. "Klinger, you've officially gone off the deep end." He leaned forward on his arms across the table. "There are quite literally _gaggles_ of gorgeous nurses in this camp. And by some miracle, a few of them actually like you. I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but you could do better."

"Careful, Hawk," B.J. warned in a low voice.

"Yeah, what he said," Klinger added, narrowing his eyes. "You know, for your information, just because a girl doesn't have the body of Marilyn Monroe, that doesn't make her any less nice, or smart, or funny, than the ones who do. And just because _you_ don't think a girl is gorgeous, that doesn't mean she ain't."

Hawkeye resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Do I ever feel sorry for me." He turned to B.J. "What about you, Beej? What do you think of Malone?"

He gave a noncommittal shrug. "Don't ask me. In my opinion, there are only two women in the world: Peg, and everyone else."

Hawkeye snorted. "Scratch that. I feel much sorrier for you."

"And I feel sorry for _both_ of you," Klinger muttered.

Malone walked by their table carrying her tray, and Hawkeye decided to humor the dear misguided mental case. He reached out and stopped her with a gentle tug on her sleeve. "Hey, where're you going, Red?" he asked amiably. "We reserved a pedestal especially for you."

"Thanks, I think," she replied as she slid onto the bench next to Klinger. Hawkeye was amused to observe him edging closer to her. "Good morning, B.J., Klinger. Hawkeye, welcome back to the pigpen."

"It's splendid to be back, thanks to you," he told her. "Charles hasn't been this quiet since he strained his vocal chords trying to sing _Pagliacci_. It's like I've died and gone to heaven."

The redhead's lips twitched in a brief, halfhearted smile. "Thanks very much," she said in a monotone, pushing her food listlessly around her tray. "I feel like an absolute creep."

Klinger frowned at her in disbelief. "What's there to feel bad about, Nellie?" he asked. "Major Winchester deserved to be put in his place. And believe me, it was a long time coming."

Hawkeye wasn't listening. _Her name is Nellie?_ he thought in mild surprise. "I honestly didn't mean to lose my temper," she explained in frustration, dragging her hands through her unkempt hair. "Frankly, I could live with all of Major Winchester's wise-ass comments about enlisted men. But I just couldn't believe he would endanger a patient's life rather than admit he needed assistance from a non-comm. Finally something in me just snapped, and I descended on him like a harpy." She sighed despondently. "Now I wish I'd just kept my cavernous trap shut."

"Well, I, for one, am sure glad you didn't," Klinger said with a warm smile as he dug his fork into his food. "You were aces, Nellie! Standing up to the major like that, eyes blazing..." His fork strayed from its target and speared his napkin. "All those pretty words tumbling from your pretty lips..."

Malone cleared her throat lightly. "Klinger, would you please remove your hand from my knee?"

"Sorry."

As they spoke, the door opened again and Charles stepped inside, wearing his old tobogganing cap that Radar and Father Mulcahy had had mailed to him from Boston. Without a word, he strode directly to the mess line, studiously ignoring all of them as he went. Malone groaned inconsolably and let her head drop to the table.

"Aww, don't feel too bad, Red," said B.J., waving his hand dismissively. "Charles needs a good deflating every now and then. It keeps his head from floating away."

She shook her head, curly ginger hair bouncing. "He may be a windbag, but he's still a first-rate surgeon," she answered, her voice muffled by the table. "Heck, I'll be the first one to admit that. And he _did_ save that boy's leg." She lifted her head, brow furrowed in resolve. "I really should just apologize."

The three men simultaneously made uneasy, if inarticulate, noises. Malone raised her eyebrows. "Don't try to rally behind me or anything, guys," she said.

"The thing is, Nellie," Klinger began hesitantly, "it takes a degree of humility and compassion to accept an apology. Major Winchester doesn't exactly possess either of those qualities in spades."

"In other words, don't expect much, kid," Hawkeye clarified, "because you're not going to get it."

"That's the spirit, keep the expectations low, and nobody gets disappointed," she said dryly. She set down her tarnished fork. "Well, the Malones have always been an annoyingly persistent bunch. And I don't particularly relish the thought of walking on eggshells around the major for the duration of this war." She smiled her peculiar crooked smile. "It's not like he can stay angry with me indefinitely, right?"

Hawkeye snickered, and B.J. began to whistle casually, but otherwise she received no real response. "Be that as it may," she continued firmly, "there's no harm in trying." She pushed her tray aside and rose from the table. "If you three will excuse me, I believe I will do just that."

Hawkeye watched Malone march off to confront her adversary, shaking his head in sympathy. The poor, hapless kid had absolutely no idea what she was undertaking. Personally, he didn't see the wisdom in it. When it came right down to it, she had miraculously succeeded in getting Charles to ignore her. Why tempt Fate?

"I guess she is kind of cute," B.J. admitted as she left. "In a frumpy-high-school-English-teacher sort of way. Although in a lot of respects, she almost reminds me of Charles... without all the pomp and circumstance."

Hawkeye nodded, drinking his lukewarm coffee. "The view from behind is much better, too," he had to admit.

"Hey!" Klinger exclaimed angrily. "Keep your eyes to yourself, Pierce."

The dark-haired surgeon drew back in shock and righteous indignation. "What's the gag?" he demanded. "I don't get it. A second ago you were trying to convince me she was a goddess. Now you're saying I can't even challenge your claim?"

The clerk narrowed his dark eyes. "With all due respect, sir, I saw her first." He crossed his arms over his chest. "So hands off!"

"Klinger," B.J. said as he set down his fork, "Lieutenant Malone is a pretty smart girl. I don't think it's much of a stretch to say she's smarter than you. What makes you think she'd be interested?"

"O ye of little faith," Klinger replied with a smug grin. He stood up and daubed his mouth very primly with his napkin. "Witness, Captains, as I turn on the fabled Klinger charm."

Hawkeye watched, albeit a little dubiously, as Klinger straightened his matted fur coat in an incongruously formal gesture and sauntered over to the table on the far side of the mess tent. Malone was currently sitting across from Charles, engaged in deep conversation with the ill-used major. As she spoke, Hawkeye noticed that her fists were clenched under the table, betraying her outward calm.

Just as Klinger reached her and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, she stood up abruptly, causing him to pinwheel backward in surprise. She turned, spoke some hasty words to the clerk, and rushed out of the mess tent, nearly bowling Father Mulcahy over as she left.

"My goodness," the priest remarked, his eyes wide.

After exchanging a wordless glance, Hawkeye and B.J. stood and made their way to the far table, where Charles was very calmly sipping his coffee and perusing the _Boston Globe_. Klinger was glaring openly at him.

"Enjoying yourself?" B.J. asked flatly.

"Immensely." Charles glanced up briefly before returning his gaze to his paper. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"You can start by telling us what, exactly, you said to Malone," said Hawkeye.

The major frowned in distaste. "Malone," he repeated, still not looking up. "Such an unpleasant little woman. I merely saw through her insincere apology and informed her in no uncertain terms that I have no need for her pity. Or her friendship, for that matter. Does that sate your curiosity?"

Annoyed at his coolness, Hawkeye snatched up his newspaper and slapped it against the edge of the table. "You dunce!" he exclaimed. "She just got done telling us she felt terrible! There was nothing insincere about it."

"Pardon me, but I couldn't help overhearing," Mulcahy said in his unobtrusive way as he came to join them. "If it's true that Lieutenant Malone is repentant, then it would be a great act of kindness to accept her apology. After all, how can we expect our heavenly Father to forgive us if we do not forgive our neighbors?"

Charles arched a haughty eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that this was Sunday, Father," he drawled.

"You know, you're really unbelievable, Major," Klinger put in angrily. "That poor kid was only doing her job as best as she could. You're just punishing her because you can't stand the thought of admitting she was right. That you _did_ need help in the O.R."

"And that Klinger did a bang-up job, too," B.J. added.

"Oh, no one is disputing that," Charles replied innocently. "I am more than happy to concede that Klinger conducted himself... adequately." He rose to his feet, plucking his paper from Hawkeye's fingers. "And I am sorry for Malone's pangs of conscience. Truly, my heart bleeds." He gave a smirk that was tinged with, oddly enough, pain. "Wait, strike that. Apparently, I _have_ no heart."

He nodded stiffly, ignoring the men's disapproving stares, and strolled out of the mess tent.

* * *

"So tell me. What in the seven Hells am I supposed to do now?"

Kealani Kellye raised her dark almond eyes from her magazine. "Do about what?"

"Haven't you been listening at all?" Nellie exclaimed, throwing her pillow across the tent at the other nurse in frustration. "Major Winchester officially despises me, and no matter what I do, I can't seem to make things right. If anything, I've just made them worse than ever."

Kellye caught her biting her nails and shot her a reprimanding look. With an effort, she brought her hands down to her lap. "I've tried to apologize to him roughly a hundred times. He's like this fortress of indifference." She sighed wearily. "I'm down to the end of what's left of my wits, Kellye. I don't know what to do anymore."

In answer, Kellye shrugged. "Maybe there's nothing more you _can_ do. Maybe you'll just have to accept the fact that he's not going to forgive you."

"But who _does_ that?" Nellie persisted. "What kind of a person stubbornly refuses to forgive someone just for the sake of seeing them miserable?"

Kellye closed her magazine and regarded her like a wayward child. "Nellie, Nellie," she chided. "What makes you think he's doing it to make you miserable?"

The redhead blinked owlishly through her glasses. "If not, then why else?" she asked, confused.

The Hawaiian nurse folded her legs underneath herself and clasped her hands together, assuming the position Nellie had come to recognize as her lecturing stance. "Just try to put yourself in Major Winchester's shoes," she said. "You're an educated, accomplished surgeon, with enough credentials to open up your own hospital. Suddenly, in the middle of surgery, you're outranked by a nurse who has only been in Korea for a few weeks; a nurse who you _thought_ was your friend. On top of that, you _and_ your credentials are insulted by that same nurse in front of half the camp. How would you feel?"

Kellye hadn't even gotten through half of her speech before a sick feeling settled in Nellie's stomach. _My God, she's right,_ she thought regretfully. _No wonder he hates me. I completely ignored his feelings. I'm such a little mosquito._

Noticing her bleak expression, Kellye smiled sympathetically. "Perspective sure is a jerk, huh?"

"Tell me about it." Nellie took off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes. "Now I'm not even sure if I forgive myself."

"Why is it so important to you, anyway?" Kellye asked. "Major Winchester forgiving you, I mean. It's not exactly the end of the world if he doesn't, you know."

"I know, it's just..." Nellie's weak eyes strayed to her book collection, which was too large for even her foot locker to contain. Several volumes lay piled in the corner or stashed under her cot. "We were beginning to get along so well. We have so much in common. I've never been able to talk about literature and music without someone expiring from boredom. But he actually listened to me, and knew what I was saying. He understood me, even better than my brother Danny does." She swallowed. "Maybe even better than my father did."

She returned her glasses to her nose and found Kellye looking at her intently. "At any rate," she said quickly, "I'm simply not ready to accept that my idiotic mouth has cost me a friend. Even a friend as impossibly arrogant as Major Winchester."

"Maybe you should tell him that."

Nellie laughed humorlessly. "Oh, yes. He'll love that. In fact, he'll very diplomatically suggest that I go pick flowers in the mine field."

"No, really," said Kellye, very seriously. "Not in those exact words, of course. Just be honest. Tell him how much his friendship has meant to you, and that you're sorry you mistreated it. If it meant anything to him, and I suspect it did... then maybe he won't be so stubborn anymore."

As she considered this, Nellie's eyes lighted on the title of a thick maroon book at the top of one the untidy stacks on the floor: _Selected Poems_, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. She recalled being shocked the week before, when Major Winchester had informed her that Tennyson was one of the few Victorian poets he had never read. She had been meaning to loan him her own copy, when this whole ugly business had started. Now it gave her an idea.

She grinned at Kellye. "Don't you ever get tired of being right all the time?"

"Yes," the other nurse confessed, turning back to her magazine, "but it passes."

Rolling her eyes, Nellie scooped up the book and darted out of the nurses' tent, heading across the compound toward the Swamp. At the moment she could only see one light on inside the surgeons' quarters, and she was fairly certain it wasn't Winchester's. Her supposition proved correct when she rapped lightly on the door and B.J.'s voice drifted to her from within.

"Yo," he said in his usual informal way.

"It's Nellie," she replied. "May I come in for a moment?"

His reply was inexplicably muffled: "Charles isn't here, so the coast must be clear."

She stepped quickly inside to see the blond surgeon attempting to darn a hole in his socks. He looked strangely endearing, sitting there on the edge of his cot, holding the sock between in his knees and a needle in his mouth. That explained his sudden speech impediment.

"Need any help?" she offered.

He shook his head with a good-natured smile. "Nah. I figure if I start learning how to do all this domestic stuff now, I'll be more help to Peg when I get home."

The man really was impossibly sweet, she reflected. "You'd better not learn too much, or she'll decide to let you make up for all the housework she's been doing herself," she said jokingly. He chuckled. "Is Major Winchester likely to be in soon, do you think?"

"I know not, my good lady," B.J. replied, threading a clashing piece of red yarn through his black sock. "He's in Post-Op right now, but I have no idea when his shift ends." He looked up at her. "Still trying to break his back with the olive branch?"

Nellie gazed down at the book in her hands. "You could say that. Only now, I'm doing it for the right reasons." She noticed him eyeing her curiously. "Do you think I could just leave this here for him?" she asked, indicating the thick volume.

"I'll guard it with my very life until he returns," he said gallantly.

She smiled and placed the book on top of the red velvet pillow on Winchester's cot. "Thanks, B.J., you're a peach," she told him as she paused at the door of the Swamp.

"Complete with fuzz," he answered, stroking his mustache. She shook her head, laughing.

Returning to the nurses' tent, which was empty for the moment, Nellie decided to pass some time by writing to Danny. He was doing very well in his outfit, or so he hastened to assure her in his letters. He got along swimmingly with his bunkmates, who thankfully didn't mind his enormous vocabulary. In fact, he had become something of the resident scribe, taking down dictations from his fellow soldiers to their family, thus assuring each piece of correspondence was legible and contained correct spelling.

_Leave it to the Malones,_ Nellie thought in amusement, _to waste no time in earning the title of Camp Nerd._

Suddenly she heard a slight scrape outside the tent, and she looked up from her letter. "Hello?" she called.

There was no answer. It occurred to her that it might be one of the local dogs, looking for a morsel, and she stood up and walked to the door, prepared to give it a bit of pumpkin bread her uncle had sent her from California.

Instead, upon opening the door, she found absolutely nothing outside. Nothing, save for an old hardcover book bound in maroon silk, lying in the dust outside her doorway.

* * *

When it came to reminiscing with fondness over getting pneumonia from the freezing river in Boston with which Charles shared his name, there was nothing like taking a cold shower in late October. By the time his evening shift had ended in Post-Op, there was nary a drop of hot water left to soothe his aching body. He stood shivering under the icy cascade, thinking of warm things and fervently wishing he was anywhere else. Like sitting beside a crackling fireplace back home, sipping brandy and reading Shakespeare.

Upon further reflection, perhaps not Shakespeare. For him that name now brought to mind a certain brazen redhead who had so callously thrown his attempts at friendship back in his face.

No. Not Shakespeare. And most decidedly not Tennyson. Perhaps Longfellow, instead.

Shutting off the frigid water, Charles stepped out of the shower and quickly dried himself, wrapping up in his thick dressing gown. It wasn't much of a defense against autumn in Korea, especially after the loss of his beloved polar suit, but with any luck there would still be a fire going in the tiny woodstove inside the Swamp. Better yet, his tentmates might be elsewhere, leaving him a few precious moments alone to listen to his music.

One could dream, anyway.

He picked up his towel and stepped gingerly out into the cold air, already fancying he felt his wet hair beginning to freeze to his head. He had almost made it back to his tent when out of the corner of his eye he saw red. Red curls, to be precise.

Vainly Charles tried to readjust his course to avoid yet another unpleasantness, but it was too late. He groaned as Lieutenant Malone approached him, her stubborn little chin raised challengingly. She stopped in front of him, waving a dust-covered book in the air. "So, this is what I get for trying to restore the peace between us?" she demanded.

"Lieutenant, you are wasting your time," he said dispassionately as he side-stepped her, continuing on his way back toward the Swamp.

But Malone would not be dissuaded. She quickly fell into step beside him, taking two steps for each one of his. "It would appear that I am," she said, vexed. "I've tried everything short of falling to my knees and groveling at your feet." She swiftly shot in front of him, inconveniently blocking his path. "What do I have to do in order for you to forgive me, Major? I feel like I'm apologizing to a wall!"

Charles was really beginning to get rather cold. And impatient. "A wall," he repeated bitterly. "An appropriate analogy, wouldn't you say? Comparing me to an inanimate object?"

The nurse sighed in frustration. "You know that's not what I meant, sir," she said in a quiet voice.

"Oh, come, of course you did," he insisted, very sweetly. "Let us not tiptoe around the issue. I _am_ a heartless automaton, after all."

Her lower lip was a little too set, as if she were trying desperately to keep it steady. "No, you're not," she murmured.

Charles chuckled sourly. "Then apparently you must have invented your own version of things in your mind in order to ameliorate your guilt. Do let me know how that works out for you. On second thought, don't."

Malone suddenly exploded. "I'm _sorry_, all right?" she exclaimed, preceding a small sound at the back of her throat that closely resembled a sob. "I don't know how many more times I can tell you, I'm sorry! I lost my head for one brief moment!" She swallowed. "I forgot where I was, and the overprotective big sister in me just took over. I know that's no excuse."

Charles was surprised to see a drop of moisture on her face. Furiously, she brushed it away. "You were right, when you called me a petulant child," she continued shakily. "That's exactly what I was. And I felt awful when you said you thought you'd found a kindred spirit in me. Because the truth is, I was beginning to hope I'd found one in you.

"Suddenly this stupid war seemed almost bearable. I thought that maybe, as long as I had a friend who actually understood me, I would be all right." She shook her head with a cynical laugh. "But as usual, my complete lack of social skills has managed to ruin everything."

She shrugged wearily, a futile gesture. "I don't know what else to say, except... I am deeply sorry for the way I treated you, Major. And I really hope we can be friends."

For the moment Charles stood silently, at a loss. He certainly had not expected anything like this. Unwittingly, his mind went back to all those nights he had spent sitting across from the diminutive nurse in the Officers' Club, discussing the complex, ironical dialogue of Oscar Wilde, or the effortless dignity and elegance of Bach's cello suites. Watching her green eyes light up as she spoke passionately about Goëthe's heavy symbolism. Hearing her laugh when she confessed how much she loved the _Jeeves_ stories by P.G. Wodehouse.

And then another, less pleasant memory forced its way into his reverie. The memory of her snide remarks, and her outright insults. Of the other officers' laughter and applause.

_"Haven't you noticed that you don't have a single friend in this camp?"_

They had loved every moment of it.

The pain of her betrayal made his resolve as hard as granite.

Looking her square in the eye, he said, "I'm afraid not."

Malone's expressive face was etched with confusion and despair. "But I—"

He held up a hand to silence her. "You don't seem to understand," he said very slowly. "You publicly humiliated me, Lieutenant. You made a fool of me. _Me_." He paused to let the last word hang in the air. "Did you honestly think a few feeble words of remorse and a tattered peace offering would be sufficient to dupe me into forgetting that?"

There was a short silence, punctuated by a sniffle he couldn't be sure he had even heard. "All right," Malone finally said in a tight voice. "Fair enough. I won't bother you anymore." She turned the book over in her hands, taking great pains to avoid his eyes. "But I'd like you to have this anyway. There's no sense in denying yourself the works of a great poet just because of me."

Before Charles had a chance to protest, she shoved the book into his hands and walked away, wiping roughly at her cheeks.

Suppressing a growl of annoyance, Charles tucked the book under his arm and stalked back to the Swamp, slamming the door shut behind him. He felt Pierce and Hunnicutt's eyes on him as he sat down on his cot, throwing the bothersome tome onto his desk among his papers.

"Boy, that book seems to really like you," Hunnicutt commented.

"The feeling is emphatically _not_ mutual," Charles snapped in reply. He leaned forward and rubbed wearily at his temples, trying to ignore the building pressure. In his peripheral vision, he noticed that the book had fallen open to the front flyleaf. There seemed to be a bit of writing scrawled on it.

Likely a written apology from Malone. A mediocre attempt, at best.

Out of nowhere, an image flitted, unexpected and unwanted, across his mind: a single bead of moisture resting on Malone's freckled cheek.

He remembered how smug he had been when he had told Margaret that he had never in his life reduced a woman to tears. Now, he could no longer truthfully say that.

He didn't know why he picked it up. If asked at the time, he would have claimed mere curiosity. But years later, if you caught him on a good day, he just might have confessed to you that he was looking for a reason to forgive her. If you were lucky.

With a put-upon sigh, he plucked the book up from his desk and flipped it open to the inside cover. There was a brief inscription in a small, spidery hand.

_For Nellie — This book belonged to your mother. Tennyson was a favorite of hers, and I have no doubt you'll come to feel the same way. You have more in common with her than you know. I'm proud of you, and I know that, up in Heaven, she's proud of you too. Love, Dad._

Charles felt a very unwelcome tightness begin to form in his chest.

_Good Lord,_ he thought miserably. _She gave me her dead mother's book. Simply _gave_ it to me._

He groaned and fell backward against his thin mattress, clasping the book to himself like it was some endangered and defenseless animal. His tentmates stared across the Swamp at him curiously.

"What's up, Chuck?" asked Hunnicutt.

"I am a cad," he muttered, staring dismally up at the canvas ceiling. "An utter _cad_. She gave me a precious family heirloom. And I flung it into the dust."

The surgeons exchanged glances. "You're going to have to run that by us again, old buddy," said Pierce.

Charles sat up abruptly, tapping the maroon cover of the book with his fingertips. "Don't you see what that conniving woman has done?" he demanded. They continued to stare at him, and he sighed in defeat and, perhaps, relief. "She's coerced me into forgiving her."

"Oh, good," Pierce replied in a bored tone. "I was wondering when we would go back to being one big, crappy family."

* * *

A/N: Har har har. Sorry that was so long. Actually, no, I'm not. However, I'm enjoying this far more than I should. But I am a little sorry that Hawkeye was such a horse's rear end about Klinger's little crush. But we all know how he acted around Kellye, until she got on his case about his shallowness. He can't help himself.

Also, I thought I'd share this with you! Last night I had a new cocktail at a local restaurant, and guess what it was called. A Grape Nehi. Yay! I ordered it just for the name, but I was pleasantly surprised. I'm pretty sure Radar wouldn't have been able to handle it, though; it had vodka in it. Anyway, I've been sitting in front of my computer too long, and my eyes are starting to cross. I shall end with this brief message: support your fellow fanfiction writers. Leave a review.

-Octopus


	7. File Under G for Getting Better

A/N: I can't believe I waited this long to write a _M*A*S*H_ fanfic. I would have done it a long time ago, if I'd known what lovely readers you all are! Seriously, I could hug you all. Especially since you don't seem to mind all the space I've been devoting to our dear Lebanese lad. I assure you, I don't plan to stop. Personally, I don't see how a person can write a _M*A*S*H_ fanfic and _not_ include Klinger. Anyway, at the risk of sounding maudlin, your kind words really mean a great deal to me. And I am one cynical twenty-four-year-old.

Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing the _M*A*S*H_ cast. But I'm sure no one will miss them, since the show is on about fourteen times a day. Not that I'm complaining.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Seven: File Under G for "Getting Better"

The Post-Operative Recovery Ward was not exactly the most ideal environment for relaxation, but it was the last place anyone would be looking for a company clerk during his precious hours off-duty. It was for this reason that it was the first place he thought of to get away.

It was just a pleasant accident that said off-duty hours happened to coincide with Nellie Malone's shift.

Curled up in the corner on one of the empty beds, Maxwell Klinger's attention was, for once, not focused on the red-haired object of his affection. Instead, he sat hunched over an old, yellowed paperback, his brow furrowed in concentration. If anyone had noticed him, they would have been surprised, to say the least, at his choice of reading material.

"_'Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note; So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;'_" Klinger read aloud in his slightly nasal baritone, "_'And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me, On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.'_"

He slowly lowered the book to his lap, his eyes wide. "Boy, this Shakespeare stuff is pure gold," he murmured under his breath. "If only I knew what the hell he was saying."

In the bunk beside him, a young soldier chuckled, holding his bandaged abdomen protectively. "Please, sir," he said in a strained voice, "it hurts to laugh."

Klinger grinned. "Sorry, my internal monologue must be broken," he replied. "And none of that 'sir' stuff, if you don't mind. I'm trying my best to forget where I am."

"Boy, you and me both," the young man said wryly. He was thin and pale but muscular, and he had dark, curly hair and big blue eyes — the kind of eyes that girls wanted to do cannonballs into. And he barely looked old enough to drink. "When you read about the war in _Stars and Stripes_, they don't tell you about all the fringe benefits, like shrapnel wounds and foot fungus."

"Don't forget the cockroach races," Klinger added. He reached across the space between the bunks and stuck out his hand. "Max Klinger, prisoner of war."

The soldier shook his hand. "Freddie Osborne, future Section Eight," he said, grinning weakly.

Klinger sat up straight in surprise. "No kidding!" he exclaimed, slapping a hand against his thigh. "Do you have any idea how long I tried to get sent home on a Section Eight? Heck, I'd _still_ be gunning for it, if the last company clerk hadn't left me to look after the place for him!" He shrugged in good-natured defeat. "I guess that's what I get for being so damn loyal."

"You're a credit to your camp, Klinger," Osborne replied with a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Try telling _them_ that."

The boy chuckled again, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. "Sounds like you've had about as much success as I have. I've been trying to get out since Day One, and all I've gotten for my trouble is the reputation of camp clown."

"There are worse things to be remembered for." The Lebanese swung his legs over the side of the bed and rested his forearms on his thighs. "Say, why don't you explain your strategy so far? Maybe I can give you a few pointers. You know, some things you haven't tried yet."

"Oh, yeah?" Osborne looked skeptical. "I don't know. I'm pretty sure I've tried it all."

It took considerable effort for Klinger to deny himself a smug smile. "I'm pretty sure you haven't," he said simply.

He had to give Osborne credit, he decided as they exchanged stories of their attempts to convince their superior officers of their insanity. The kid definitely had an imagination. He especially enjoyed Osborne's recounting of his latest antic, in which an entire week had been devoted to pretending he was possessed by the spirits of Napoleon Bonaparte and Adolf Hitler at the same time.

By the end of his story, Klinger was holding his own sides to prevent a hernia. "Don't laugh, it was a lot harder than it sounds!" Osborne asserted. "I kept getting their voices mixed up! At one point I think I started singing _Les Marseillaise_ in a German accent!"

"Oh, God!" Klinger wiped a tear from his eye. "It's a good thing we weren't assigned to the same outfit, Osborne. I get the distinct impression that I would've had some competition."

"Either that, or we would've succeeded in giving your colonel a stroke." Osborne leaned back against his pillows. "In this instance, I'm going to have to bow to your superior experience. I've tried a lot of stuff, but eating a jeep is something that never would have even occurred to me."

"And I strongly recommend against it," the clerk told him firmly, waving a finger at him. "The wiper blades weren't too bad. But I'm telling you, those nuts and bolts add up fast. And they're definitely not worth getting your stomach pumped."

Osborne grinned. "Don't worry," he said, "I know better than to steal a Klinger original."

Klinger waved his hand dismissively. "Nah, it was a lousy idea, anyway," he confessed. "I don't know why I thought swallowing pieces of metal would be any different than getting shot full of them."

"Yeah. You got a point." The young man looked down despondently at the wound in his side. "Look at me. I've spent every day since I got here pretending to be crazy, because I'd rather get out on a Section Eight than an injury discharge. So guess what happens? I get hit by an exploding mortar _just_ bad enough for it to hurt like hell, but not bad enough to get sent home." He shook his head bitterly. "Figures."

Klinger stared silently down at his boots. It was funny, the way things worked here in Korea. Well, maybe not so much funny as depressing.

"I got a girl waiting for me back home," Osborne was saying with a slight smile, "in Aspen, Colorado. It's a gorgeous town, and she's a gorgeous girl. When I got hit, all that was running through my mind was, 'Thank God. I'm going to see my Emily again.'"

An unwelcome lump formed in Klinger's throat as he thought of a certain girl who had promised to wait for him back home in Toledo: his wife. He nodded encouragingly at Osborne, but he couldn't ignore the ache in his chest that always seemed to settle there whenever he remembered Laverne's betrayal. Why didn't the words _'Til death do us part_ mean anything to people anymore?

"She sounds great," he said, mustering a smile.

"She is great." Osborne sighed, shifted in his bunk. "I don't get it, Klinger. Why don't we read about this kind of stuff in _Stars and Stripes_? You know? How come there are never any guys like us in all those war movies? Guys who would do anything to be anywhere but here?"

Klinger gave a rueful shrug. "It's like a good friend of mine once said, Osborne. No war is a movie."

Osborne snorted. "Amen, brother," he said quietly.

At that moment, Margaret Houlihan strolled over from the opposite end of Post-Op, her arms folded over her chest. "I don't recall giving you permission to annoy my patients, Klinger," she said crossly.

The clerk scrambled hastily off of the bed, anticipating one of the head nurse's all-too-frequent outbursts, but Osborne gave her his most charming smile. "Don't worry about me, ma'am," he said soothingly. "I asked Corporal Klinger here to keep me company. He's been extremely long-suffering with me."

"Boy, are you a rotten liar," Margaret said, not attempting to hold back a smile. She picked up the clipboard which held his chart and looked it over thoroughly. "Well, Private Osborne, everything here looks ship-shape. At this rate, you'll be rejoining your unit in a week or two."

"I can hardly contain myself," he replied with a feeble grin.

"Major?"

Klinger turned to see Nellie Malone coming toward them, a pencil stuck behind her ear. All thoughts of Laverne went flying out of his head as his eyes lighted on the pocket-sized little nurse. He quickly stuffed the book inside his jacket and sucked in his stomach, trying frantically to recall if he brushed his teeth that morning.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" Margaret asked the nurse as she came to join them.

Nellie smiled briefly at Klinger before answering. "Kellerman's responding well to the antibiotics, Major," she said. "I think we can rule out the danger of infection."

"That's good news, Malone. Keep me updated."

"Yes, ma'am. And if I may say so," she added as the major moved on to the next patient, "I'm _very_ glad you're feeling better."

Margaret smiled dryly. "I think the word you're looking for is 'relieved', Lieutenant," she answered. "But thank you anyway."

Klinger watched as Nellie took the pencil from behind her ear and used it to twist her red hair back into a messy bun. "What are you doing spending your off hours in Post-Op, Klinger?" she asked. "I'm surprised you're not over at Rosie's, shooting craps or playing darts, or whatever it is you exciting people do for fun."

"Aww, come on, Nellie, give me a little credit," Klinger protested. "I happen to think medicine is very exciting." He smiled at her fondly. "It must be, if it attracted a smart girl like you."

Nellie blushed and swatted him lightly on the arm, and out of the corner of his eye, Klinger could see Freddie Osborne watching them. He really wished the private would wipe that knowing smirk off his face.

"Anyway, as long as I've got you here," she said, pushing her glasses up her nose, "I've been meaning to ask you something."

His heart started to thud perceptibly louder in his ears. "Sure, anything," he replied, much calmer than he felt.

"When is the next mail shipment going out? My brother's birthday is coming up, and I'd really like my gift to get to him in time."

"Oh." His shoulders slumped in disappointment. "The next shipment should be going out this Friday; if nothing goes wrong, that is. I can keep your package in my office until then, if you like."

Nellie smiled faintly. "Thanks, but I'm sure that won't be necessary. It's not much of a gift, anyway. Just a scarf I crocheted for him. But if winter in Korea is as cold as everyone says it is, he's going to need it. I hear it's the literal version of Hell freezing over."

"Boy, that's an understatement," Klinger muttered. "That was real nice of you, though. I'm sure Danny will love it." He waited for her to notice that he had remembered her brother's name, but instead she just shrugged half-heartedly. She didn't seem her usual sweet-tempered self. He wondered if she was still upset over her falling-out with Winchester. If that was the case, he had some choice words for the good major.

Before he could ask her, he felt a tug on the sleeve of his jacket. "Klinger?"

He turned to see Nurse Nagel staring at him expectantly. "Yeah?"

"Colonel Potter's holding an emergency staff meeting in his office for all the senior officers in ten minutes. He said he wants you there, too."

"Oh, terrific," Klinger said under his breath as the nurse bustled off. He turned back to Nellie, who was staring distractedly at a fixed point on the floor. He gathered his nerve, and reached out and tilted her chin up until her eyes met his. "Hey, Nell, are you okay?" he asked softly.

She looked at him for a moment with an odd expression on her face. "I haven't heard anyone call me Nell since my brother left for Pusan," she finally said with a small smile. "I'm all right, Klinger. Thanks." She poked him gently on the arm. "Now you should get moving, or you're going to miss the staff meeting. Don't worry, Private Osborne will be here when you get back."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going." He brushed the wrinkles out of his jacket. "Will I see you there?"

Nellie raised her eyebrows. "Of course not, silly," she said in amusement. "I'm not a senior officer."

"You outrank _me_, Nellie," he reminded her.

She gave a low chuckle. "Only on paper, Klinger," she said, patting his shoulder warmly before turning her attention toward the other patients.

The corporal watched her leave with a dreamy smile, and then turned toward Osborne. "She's gonna marry me," he told him confidingly.

"Oh, yeah?" said the young private. "Congratulations."

Klinger's eyes widened as he realized what he just said. "Ooh, uh, don't, don't tell her or anything," he stammered. "She doesn't actually _know_ it yet."

* * *

Charles was not surprised to find, upon walking into Colonel Potter's office, that neither Pierce nor Hunnicutt had yet arrived. Margaret, of course, being the Army brat from birth that she was, had already beaten him there. Father Mulcahy too was always punctual, if not especially eager to attend, his area of expertise being spiritual healing rather than physical. Klinger had followed shortly after the major arrived, pointedly neglecting to greet him. But both his tentmates, who were decidedly non-military, seemed to have honed tardiness into an art form.

Colonel Potter endured a great deal from those two, Charles reflected as he took up a corner of the older man's office. Although the Bostonian was a physician first and a major last, he possessed at least a modicum of respect for the military, and did not go out of his way to thumb his nose, so to speak, at said institution. In stark contrast, however, Hunnicutt and especially Pierce were determined to leave every trace of the Army behind them in Korea, or die trying.

An interesting strategy. It was one of the things Margaret openly loathed the most about the two captains. Oddly enough, it was one of the things Charles secretly admired the most about them.

At last the dissipated duo trudged in through the double doors and slumped into the remaining empty chairs. "Sorry we're late, Colonel," said Pierce, rubbing his face with a bony hand, "we had anywhere else to be."

"Oh, well, I'm just honored you found time in your busy schedules to humor this old geezer," Potter remarked in a syrupy-sweet voice. "Maybe next time you can take a shortcut through the formalities and go straight to bedpan duty, hmm?"

Hunnicutt smiled guiltily. "Point taken, Colonel. We appeal to your boundless mercy."

"Speaking of points," said Margaret impatiently, "can we get to it already? We've been waiting for you two sloths for about fifteen minutes now."

"Whatever did you do without me?" Pierce asked with a cheeky grin.

She reached over and slapped him on the arm. "I had a lot less to annoy me, that's for sure," she fired back.

Mulcahy sighed. "Lord give me strength," he said under his breath.

"My sentiments exactly, Father," Charles muttered.

Potter cleared his throat loudly, and the group finally fell silent. "If you hens have finished clucking at each other," he said in his characteristic gruff-grandfather voice, "I'll tell you what I called you in here for in the first place."

"Do tell, we're all aquiver," Charles drawled.

The colonel shot him a warning glance, but continued. "I just got a call from our pals over at Battalion Aid." There was an immediate chorus of groans. "Now don't get yourselves all worked up into a lather," he went on. "They're not asking for volunteers to go and lend a hand. They just called to warn us that one of our American troops was sent to Hill 403 earlier today."

"Oh, God," Klinger said quietly, shaking his head.

"Why do they keep sending those poor kids to Hill 403 in the first place?" Margaret asked in frustration. "Every unit they send up there is just one more that gets sent back in pieces!"

"Yeah, what's so great about Hill 403, anyway?" Pierce wondered aloud. "There's no beach front property that I'm aware of. The parking there is a nightmare."

"Don't get me started on the schools," said Hunnicutt.

"Whatever the reason," Potter resumed, as if he had never been interrupted, "the casualties started flooding in at Battalion Aid about an hour ago. They're sending us everything they can't handle themselves. They didn't say how many we could expect. All I know is, we'd darn well better be ready for them."

Charles couldn't help but interject. "Dare one inquire how we are going to accomplish such a feat? The last I heard, we were running dangerously low on silk sutures."

"I was just getting to that," the colonel answered. He turned to Klinger. "That's where you come in, Corporal. I want you to get on the horn and find as much silk sutures as you possibly can. Call the 8063rd, Supply, and anyone else that might have some to spare. Beg, borrow, do whatever it is you do so well, and be sure not to tell me about it. Understand?"

The clerk nodded resolutely. "I shan't let you down, sir."

"Good. As for the rest of you, we're going to need a back-up plan in case we _can't_ get our hands on the good stuff. So I want you to turn this camp upside-down. Look for anything that can be used as a suture substitute."

"Like what, for example, Colonel?" asked Mulcahy.

"Any non-fibrous string or thread you can find. Be creative. But make sure that it's strong, that it won't fray, and that it won't fall apart when it takes on moisture." He cleared his throat. "I happen to know from experience that dental floss works quite well in a pinch."

Charles was understandably skeptical. Stitching wounded men together with dental floss? The very idea was ludicrous. If only his colleagues in Boston knew the conditions under which he was expected to perform on a daily basis. Perhaps if they did, they would think twice before they complained about treating an uncooperative patient, or being compelled to cancel a polo game for the sake of their practice.

He was a martyr on the altar of civility.

"So," Potter continued, folding his hands in front of him, "unless anyone has a better idea, I suggest we get to work." He looked at each of them in turn. "Questions? Comments? Concerns?"

The officers glanced at one another incredulously, but it appeared that, for once, no one had a decent objection to the colonel's plan. It was not as if there was anything else they could do. Even Pierce was uncharacteristically silent. _More than likely dreading the immediate future,_ Charles mused darkly.

"Okey-doke!" Potter clapped his hands, startling him. "Let's get cracking. Dismissed."

The major sighed to himself and followed the others out the door, embarking on one of the more absurd scavenger hunts in which he could recall taking part. As he passed through Klinger's office, he observed the clerk trying frantically to connect to the 8063rd, their neighboring MASH unit.

"Yeah, that's right, silk sutures! _Silk!_ No, no, no, we don't need any gauze! Are you kidding? We've got enough gauze around here to make a tuxedo for King Tut!"

Charles shook his head, curbing a smile that threatened to overtake his lips. The corporal's hyperboles left something to be desired, but what they lacked in refinement was certainly redeemed by originality.

"Hey, Major?" Charles stopped inside the doorway to see Klinger beckoning to him. "Could you do me a favor?"

"I sincerely doubt it," he said dryly.

The clerk held the receiver between his shoulder and chin. "I can't leave my desk, Major. Could you open the top drawer of that file cabinet over there and bring me the records for last month's supply shipments? I'd really appreciate it."

Charles felt his shoulders drop. Truth be told, he would rather have his teeth pulled than be reduced to secretary duty, but he could think of no viable excuse to decline. Besides, his refusal would only strengthen a certain redheaded nurse's conviction that he was nothing but a self-important snob.

Where was that girl, anyway? If she ever expected to get her book back, she really had to stop being so elusive.

He took a deep breath and mustered a pleasant smile. "Certainly, Max," he replied breezily, strolling to the file cabinets in the back of the office. "You'll have to tell me what I'm looking for, of course. This is, after all, your area of expertise."

"You'll know 'em when you see 'em. They've got lists of everything we've received from Medical over the last month. Penicillin, bandages, bed linen, you name it." Klinger glanced at him over his shoulder. "This is real nice of you, Major. Helping me out like this."

Charles waved a hand dismissively. "Not at all, my dear Maxwell. If we are to operate like a well-oiled machine, each cog must do its part." He shuffled through the files until he found a sheaf of documents that appeared vaguely relevant. "Are these the records in question?" he asked, holding them up.

Klinger squinted at them. "Yeah, that's them," he answered, most ungrammatically. "Just stick 'em on my desk, thanks."

As Charles pushed the cabinet drawer shut, lamenting the syntax of the average American, a sheet of paper slipped out of the bundle and floated down to the floor. He suppressed a growl and bent to pick it up. Without warning, the door connecting Klinger's office to the Post-Operative Ward suddenly swung open, colliding with the side of his head and sending him crashing to the floor.

A white flurry of paper slowly drifted down all around him. He found them oddly beautiful. Especially when juxtaposed with all those stars.

A female groan echoed his own. "Oh, sweet mother of mercy," came a distraught voice somewhere above him. "You've really done it now, Malone."

Ah. Of course. Lieutenant Malone. As usual, the girl's timing was impeccable.

He felt her take his arm and rather unceremoniously haul him to his feet, talking non-stop in her curiously incongruous contralto. _Good heavens, she's much stronger than I would have suspected,_ he thought absently. "I am _so_ sorry, Major," she was saying as she bent down to retrieve the scattered papers. "I realize you're probably tired of hearing those words, coming from me. Are you all right?"

Charles blinked at her, still dazed. Then his eyes re-focused, until they fell on the documents in her hands. "Klinger," he heard himself say, "I'm afraid you're going to have to sort the files yourself. Malone here has taken it upon herself to scatter them to the four winds."

He was aiming for droll humor, but in his muddled state, it didn't quite come out that way. And it was clear from the hurt look in Malone's eyes that she had definitely not picked up on it. Without a word, she placed the stack of papers in his hands. By the time his jumbled brain could catch up, she was gone.

As Charles turned to Klinger, head pounding, he was not surprised to find the clerk glaring at him in unconcealed disgust.

"Damnation," he whispered.

* * *

The human body does strange things when approaching complete exhaustion. Faced with the possibility of passing out where it stands, it does not heed the mind's less imperative commands, such as "Put this scalpel here", or "Don't take off your mask yet". Or even "Don't tell the head nurse to leave you alone". Thankfully, when everyone around you is just as exhausted as you are, it doesn't really matter.

Fenella Malone contemplated these peculiarities while she sat against the wall of the changing room, under the row of jackets. Somewhere between cleaning up after nine long hours in surgery, changing into her default olive drabs, and falling onto the bench which she currently occupied, a single lock of frizzy red hair had fallen in front of her right eye, and she had no idea how long she had been staring at it. Had it occurred to her, she would have realized she was crossing her eyes.

All Nellie could think of, however, was how tired she was. And she knew tired. After all, she had taken care of her brother from the day he was born, and when her father had fallen ill, she had essentially become his caretaker as well. None of that even held a candle to working in a MASH unit. Especially a MASH unit when it was high on casualties and low on supplies. She was seriously wondering how she would be able to persuade her feet to convey her the entire distance back to her tent.

But it wasn't as if she could move from her spot anyway. Five minutes after she had sat down, Hawkeye had collapsed beside her onto the bench, burrowed his head against her shoulder, and promptly drifted off. Apparently he was an opportunist when it came to sleep, because his bed seemed to be wherever he could find it. And his pillow was whatever he could get to fit under his bony head.

Nellie smiled as she leaned her own head back against the coats. He really had shown what he was made of tonight. All the surgeons, in fact, had far exceeded every one of her expectations. It was no ordinary doctor who could take ordinary dental floss and put a wounded person back together, just as good as new, with no discernable difference from the standard sutures. But of course, they would never know how incredible they all really were. To them, it was just another day in Korea.

The door to the O.R. swung open, and Francis Mulcahy staggered in, removing his bloodied scrubs and washing his hands thoroughly. As he looked up from the washing station, he smiled at Nellie. "Well, I see some of us didn't get very far," he said in a hushed voice.

She shook her head, returning his smile wearily. "No, some of us have been trapped under sleepy surgeons," she replied. "But I don't have the heart to wake him. Frankly, he deserves a king-sized feather mattress, but unfortunately, it's not up to me."

"Oh, heavens no," Mulcahy said in mock surprise. "They're all currently occupied by three-star generals." Nellie chuckled, and he tiptoed over and gingerly lifted his coat from its nail, being careful not to wake Hawkeye. "All of the doctors outdid themselves tonight. And all of the nurses, as well," he added, with a gracious nod.

The redhead blushed, but returned his nod. "Thank you, Father. But I wouldn't sell myself short, if I were you. I don't think I've ever seen a priest move that fast with a stack of lap sponges in my life."

He grinned. "Somehow I doubt you've ever seen a priest with a stack of lap sponges, _period_," he said wryly. "But I thank you all the same."

The door opened again, and Mulcahy turned at the sound. "Ah, Major Winchester," he said genially. "I trust you're not too worn out after..."

He trailed off as the major trudged silently into the room, tugging off his mask and surgical scrubs and tossing them into the bin. After a leisurely rinse at the washing station, he shut off the water and dried his hands very deliberately. Nellie watched, a heavy sensation settling in her stomach, as Winchester walked over to the group of jackets on the wall. Reaching for the coat directly above her head, he shrugged it on over his fatigues and walked calmly out the door, never once saying a word.

"Is this what I have to look forward to?" she whispered. "Is this how it's going to be for the rest of the war?" She shook her head dismally. "One month in Korea, and I've already made an enemy in my own camp."

Mulcahy sighed. "Don't be discouraged, my child," he said quietly, resting a hand on the shoulder that wasn't claimed by Hawkeye's head. "The Bible says, 'If it be possible, as much as it lieth in _you_, live peaceably with all men.' If someone adamantly refuses to accept our apology, what else can we do but let it rest in God's hands?"

"I know," she murmured. "But what if it was you, Father? What if you apologized to a person over and over, and all you got in return was contempt? Or at the very best, indifference?"

The priest did not even have to pause before replying. "I would pray for that person to see the error of his ways, and hope that someday soon, he will learn to forgive others, just as God in His infinite mercy has forgiven us."

Nellie smiled up at him. "Then you're a better man than I."

At this he burst out laughing. "Oh, dear," he said, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes. "I must say, Nellie, you are a fitting addition to my flock."

"And you are a lovely shepherd," she said sincerely.

Beaming, he nodded his thanks and replaced his spectacles. "Well, I'd better go get a fire going in my tent. I wouldn't want to miss Sunday service tomorrow just because my toes had fallen off." He buttoned his coat and prepared himself for facing the bitter cold. "Remember what I said, Nellie. Don't beat yourself up."

"I won't forget, Father. Good night."

"Good night."

She watched him leave, and her smile slowly faded. Blowing an exasperated breath, she sought to drive Major Winchester from her mind. She looked down at Hawkeye, who had not moved during her entire conversation with the chaplain. He looked very different when he was asleep, she thought. Despite the gray in his hair, which she suspected he didn't have before coming to Korea, he appeared younger, less care-worn. Free from the anxieties of the day.

His boots were certainly atrocious. They looked like Civil War antiques. She didn't even want to know how many people's blood they had stood in.

As she sat staring down at his filthy footwear, the door to the compound creaked open again. "Forget something, Father?" she asked abstractedly.

"I do believe that's the first time I've ever been mistaken for a clergyman," came a voice with an upper-class Bostonian accent.

Nellie looked up in surprise to see Major Winchester watching her, an amused smirk on his face. She wasn't quite sure how to respond. Should she take it as a good sign that he was talking to her at all?

Before she could stammer out some inept response, he took a few steps forward, his hands in his pockets. "Lieutenant Malone," he said very solemnly, "you have something on your uniform."

She blinked at him for a moment, until comprehension dawned on her. She nodded sheepishly, glancing down at Hawkeye. "I know, sir," she said. "I just don't have the energy to brush it off."

"Allow me." He approached the slumbering doctor and gave his shoulder a firm shake. "Pierce, wake up." Hawkeye groaned, but didn't move. "Come on now, wake up. You've got to go to sleep."

Nellie smiled despite herself. Hawkeye groaned again and stubbornly burrowed his face deeper into her fatigues. "No way," he answered, his voice muffled. "You try going back to your smelly cot after sleeping on such a fantastic pillow."

With an insistent tug, Winchester succeeded in getting the lanky surgeon upright. "Go on, stagger home," he told him. "You wouldn't want Hunnicutt and the mice to worry about you."

Hawkeye mumbled something about "Hunnicutt and the mice" being a good name for a vaudeville act as the major handed him his jacket, which he proceeded to put on backward. Rolling his eyes, Winchester assisted him by employing the more conventional method of donning one's coat. With a drowsy wave of his hand, Hawkeye pushed open the door and shuffled out into the night.

Nellie watched, not trusting herself to move or even to breathe, as Winchester strolled over to the bench and resumed the seat Hawkeye had previously occupied. For a long moment, they sat side by side in silence. Finally, when Nellie thought she might be crushed under the tension in the room, the major reached into his coat and pulled out an object. Her heart sank as she saw what it was.

"Lieutenant," he said at last, holding the book very carefully with both hands, "I fear I must disappoint you. You see, I cannot possibly accept this."

She closed her eyes, shaking her head in frustration. "Sir, I told you, I'd like you to keep it. I realize I can't expect you to forgive me, but—"

"May I finish, Malone?" She sighed, but was able to rein in her tongue. "As I was saying," he resumed, "I cannot accept it... because I am undeserving of such a treasure."

Her eyes snapped open, and she looked up at him sharply. "Major?"

Winchester had his profile turned toward her as he gazed down at the book's worn silk cover. "I am... touched," he continued, obviously taking pains with his choice of words, "that you would give up something so important, simply to make peace with one stubborn, cantankerous officer." He gave a slight, rueful smile. "However... it means far too much to you."

As he pushed the book gently but insistently into her hands, Nellie found herself stuttering incoherently. The brain certainly picked terrific times to shut down completely. After a sufficiently embarrassing number of tries, she managed to speak, still in shock. "Then you... don't want to read it?"

_Very eloquent,_ she thought, mentally kicking herself. But Winchester nodded dismissively. "Oh, I do. And don't think I won't take you up on your generous offer." He turned to meet her gaze, and she noted with surprise that, despite his light tone, his eyes were very earnest. "But only to borrow. Never to keep."

Nellie felt herself smile as she gripped the cherished volume gratefully to her chest. "My books are your books, sir," she said, her voice unexpectedly tight.

Another short silence passed between them, and again it was Winchester who broke it. "How old were you," he asked quietly, "when your mother died?"

She supposed she should have seen that coming. "Nine," she replied. "She died giving birth to my brother Danny." As she spoke, she realized it had been a long time since she had even thought of her mother. "Neither of my parents were young when they started having children. My mother barely survived giving birth to me. All her doctors warned her against having more, but she wanted a big family."

"I'm sorry." He sounded as if he meant it.

Nellie shrugged. "I was always closer to my dad, anyway. And I was too busy taking care of my brother, and later my father, to even have time to grieve."

"Your father?" he repeated.

She nodded, staring down at her boots. "He developed multiple sclerosis when I was eighteen," she said, with a little more difficulty. "He died six years ago."

"Good heavens, Malone." She felt the major's eyes on her. "I had no idea."

She looked up at him and smiled wryly. "I couldn't have expected you to, sir."

After a moment he chuckled. "No, I suppose not," he admitted.

As Winchester returned her smile, Nellie wondered why it had taken her so long to notice his eyes. They really were a very fetching shade of blue.

* * *

A/N: Yay! I know. It took them long enough. Nevertheless, I had fun with this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed it, too. Charles sure is a hard character to get right. I can't make him _too_ terrible, or I won't be able to count on anyone having sympathy for him. On the other hand, if I make him too _nice_, it won't be believable, because let's face it, that's just not Charles. There has to be a happy medium. With any luck, I'll find it. Anywho, I'll shut up and let you get on with your day. Unless of course, you have time for a review. :)

-Octopus


	8. Just Another Guy in a Dress

A/N: Wow, I feel like a schmuck. I hadn't realized it had been so long since I put out a chapter! I'm so sorry. This has been a bad few months for me, but that's no excuse. You can send me angry messages if you like. In fact, I'd much prefer it if, should I ever take this long to update again, you would bombard me with nasty-grams telling me in no uncertain terms to get my butt in gear. Frankly, it would really help me. Anyway, enough of my soppy self-recrimination. On with chapter eight!

Disclaimer: The 4077th is not mine. But if it was, I'd give them a swimming pool.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Eight: Just Another Guy in a Dress

Robert Burns, Charles had decided at last upon reflection, was an idiot.

There was no disputing, of course, that the man had been a gifted poet. But he must have had brain fever when he wrote this drivel.

_"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"  
__The joyless winter day  
__Let others fear, to me more dear  
__Than all the pride of May._

A likely story. Unless the man had somehow managed to visit Korea in late November, then he hadn't had the faintest notion of what a "joyless winter day" truly was.

Charles closed the book of poems and curled his hands around the mug of coffee in front of him, staring off into space. It was times like this that made it difficult not to dwell on old times back in Boston, when he would likely have ended a long but satisfying day at his private practice with an evening bridge game with his fellow colleagues, or perhaps simply sitting by a roaring fire with a snifter of some particularly fine cognac.

Instead he was huddled in the mess tent, attempting to warm his numbed fingers on a cup of putrid coffee he wouldn't inflict on his worst enemy. The fact that Thanksgiving had come and gone did not make circumstances easier to bear. _Fortune seems to take a perverse delight in spitting in my face_, he thought sourly.

"Oh dear, I know that look," came a sudden voice somewhere over his head. He craned his neck upward to see Fenella Malone regarding him with that absurd little crooked smile of hers. "Bemoaning our career choice again, are we, Major?"

Charles scowled. "When I first enrolled at Harvard with the intent of becoming a surgeon, I never dreamed my practice would take me to such rare and exotic locations," he muttered.

"It _is_ pretty brutal out there, isn't it?" Malone remarked as she hunkered down beside him, her own hands as white as the coffee mug they held. "I'd heard stories from the other officers, but when they called it a 'miserable frozen wasteland of death', I think they were being kind."

He felt himself smile as the redhead took a sip of coffee and pulled a face. Though he would probably never tell her, he was glad that they had moved beyond their past difficulties. There was a comfortable rapport between them; he was just as content to share an easy silence with her as he was to discuss music or literature. Companionship felt natural, not forced. He rather liked it.

It seemed on this occasion that the girl was in a more talkative frame of mind. She spoke about her brother in Pusan, and about the latest peace talks. She did not hold out any hopes for their success; the war had made her something of a pessimist. Charles simply let her talk, the rhythmic cadence of her low, mellow voice having a soothing effect on him. It was not until she said something about goats that he realized his attention had drifted somewhat.

"What was that last part?" he asked abruptly.

"I said, I want to make you some socks."

Charles blinked. For some inexplicable reason, his mind was having difficulty making the connection between the two. "A little clarification wouldn't go amiss."

Malone was smirking. "I knew you weren't listening," she said, not unkindly. "Klinger's great-aunt sent him a giant care package yesterday. As packing material, she used about a million skeins of yarn, spun _by hand_ from her Angora goats. So I'm going to make socks out of them. Not _just_ for you, Major," she added hastily. "For everyone, of course."

"Well, well," he said, raising his eyebrows. "It would appear that Klinger serves a function, after all... if only through his seemingly endless supply of relatives."

He saw the pinched look on Malone's face and regretted his remark. For whatever reason, she had become oddly protective of the company clerk; Charles often caught her fussing over him in a comically sisterly manner. He wondered if she knew that Klinger's feelings for her were anything but familial.

"At least he knew which person in this camp would make the best possible use of it," he said, by way of a peace offering. "That was astute of him."

It seemed to do the trick. Malone relaxed visibly, and set down her coffee with a sigh. "Yeah. Well. I can't guarantee that they'll be aesthetically pleasing. But at least they'll be warm." She rubbed her hands together. "Which is more than I can say for myself at the moment."

Charles watched as she shivered beside him, and after engaging in and winning a brief internal battle with his sense of propriety, edged closer until their shoulders and hips were touching. She cast a grateful smile at him, and he nodded as indifferently as he could manage.

There. He'd done his duty as a gentleman, and hadn't been slapped in the process. He was calling it a success.

"So, Major," Malone continued, returning to her former topic, "if you want your own pair, I'll need to know your shoe size and color preference."

He sipped his coffee absently. "Size twelve. And I have no color preference." He hesitated before adding, "The anticipation of an actual handmade gift makes the color seem somewhat immaterial."

Malone smiled. "Bright magenta it is, then."

"Ah," he replied dryly. "I suppose I should have said, I have no preference _within reason_."

"You're no fun."

"Not really, no."

There was a blast of cold air as the mess tent door flew open, and Klinger and Mulcahy shuffled in, looking sufficiently done in. Charles felt Malone unconsciously lean into him for warmth. As small as she was, she generated quite a bit of heat. From a biological standpoint, of course.

The clerk and the chaplain went through the mess line, perusing the food in a desultory fashion before each settling on black coffee. Ignoring the opposite end of the table, Father Mulcahy took a seat beside Charles, while Klinger slumped down on the other side of Malone. Charles was amused to note the flush on the corporal's olive cheeks as the nurse tucked her arm through his.

"Klinger, I can't believe I'm saying this," Malone said in a guilty tone, "but right now I'm _really_ wishing that musty old fur coat of yours was mine." Instantly he started to take it off, but she stopped him. "Don't even dream of it. Between you and Major Winchester, I'm actually almost warm."

Charles had to admit, he was grateful for the warmth. Not that he'd say as much aloud.

"What I wouldn't give for a mug of hot apple cider," sighed Mulcahy, gazing in disappointment down at the black silt in his own mug.

"Hard cider?" suggested Klinger.

"I wouldn't turn it down," admitted the priest.

"Right now, I could really go for a nice big bowl of lentil soup," said Klinger, resting his chin on a gloved hand. "With a hot piece of _manakeish_ on the side."

"What's that?" asked Malone.

"Traditional Lebanese bread. My mom used to make it for us kids. She'd put all these spices on it — sesame and thyme, and I don't know what else — and I swear, on a cold day, it was the best thing in the world." He smiled faintly. "God, I miss the smell of it, baking in the oven."

Malone sighed rapturously. "It sounds heavenly."

"How about you, Nell? What's your favorite thing to have on a cold day?"

The redhead smiled at Klinger's use of her nickname. "My favorite thing," she mused, her eyes dreamy behind her spectacles. "Definitely Toll House cookies. Whenever there was a snow day, and Danny and I got to stay home from school, we would make Toll House cookies. We always made a complete mess of the kitchen, but it was worth it. They were so warm and gooey, with the chocolate melting all over our fingers..."

Mulcahy chuckled. "My stomach is growling just thinking about it."

"Mine, too," said Klinger.

Malone nudged Charles' shoulder. "What about you, Major?" she asked.

He had been giving it some thought while they were talking. "There is a long hill at the northeastern corner of our family estate," he began after a pause. "When it snowed, my sister Honoria and I would toboggan down that hill for hours. Finally, after we had utterly worn ourselves out, we would go inside through the servants' entrance and take off our wet coats and boots. And while we were drying ourselves in the kitchen, the cook would make Boston brown bread for us."

He smiled at the remembrance. "She poured the batter into tin cans, and set them right inside the hearth to bake. The aroma alone made our mouths water. When they were done, we would sit at the servants' table and wash them down with a glass of milk. They were moist and chewy, with a hint of molasses." He felt an unexpected pang of homesickness. "There was nothing quite like it."

He looked down to see Malone gazing at him with a curious smile. "What is it?" he asked.

She shook her head, still grinning. "I'm trying to imagine you as a little kid."

"Just picture a smaller version of myself, with more hair, and you'll have a fairly accurate image," he said dryly.

"Little Lord Winchester," she said in amusement. Her smile hadn't faded.

"Say, kiddos, is this a private snuggle session, or can we join?"

Charles turned to see Colonel Potter and Margaret standing beside their table, taking in their closely-packed group with ill-concealed envy. "By all means, Colonel," said Mulcahy. "The more, the merrier."

Charles felt Malone shaking with silent laughter as Margaret scooted in beside the chaplain, while Potter claimed the other end. There was now no more room left on their side of the table.

"Boy, aren't we a sad sight?" observed Margaret, blowing on her hands. "We've got the whole mess tent to ourselves, and here we are huddled together, like... like..."

"Penguins?" Malone suggested.

The head nurse blinked, thrown off. "_Penguins?_"

"You know, penguins. In Antarctica. They stand in a group to keep warm." The girl shrugged, her cheeks reddening. "Don't ask me how I know that," she muttered.

"From reading encyclopedias, I suspect," said Charles, smirking. She made a face at him.

"Well, _I_ think penguins are pretty swell," said Klinger, moving a hand up and down Malone's arm in a quite flimsy pretense of keeping her warm. Charles rolled his eyes. The man really was hopelessly transparent.

"I always rather liked polar bears," Mulcahy mused reflectively. "Although I don't think they live on the same end of the earth as penguins."

"And never the twain shall meet," Charles said dryly, wondering at the absurd turn their conversation had taken. Malone chuckled.

Whether it was destined to become any more ludicrous, however, Charles would never know. At that moment there came the frenzied honking of multiple vehicles in the compound outside. The door to the mess tent burst open, and Pierce stood in the doorway, his face pale and haggard and his hair tousled crazily by the wind.

"We've got wounded," he said.

* * *

Klinger was glad he wasn't in heels.

The compound was in absolute chaos. Soldiers and nurses were running back and forth, carrying armloads of blankets and antiseptic from the supply shed. Every which way he turned, there was someone in the way. At one point he nearly collided with a pair of corpsmen as they hauled an injured man into Pre-Op. The atmosphere was foggy with the collected breaths of dozens of people mingling with the cold air.

"Klinger!" Major Houlihan was waving to him. "We're running low on B-positive," she said as he sprinted over to her. "Ask around for some donors. We need that blood."

"I'm running pretty low on B-positive myself," he muttered. She glared at him impatiently. "I'm on it, ma'am. You can count on me."

"I know I can," she said sincerely. "Now _go_, stupid!"

Klinger nodded and hurried off on his mission. All he wanted, he thought wistfully, was to be somewhere warm and quiet and peaceful, preferably with a certain red-haired nurse in his arms, pleasantly boring him to death with all that Shakespeare stuff, while tickling the back of his neck with her little fingers...

He shook himself. Later. He could torture himself later. Right now he had a job to do.

After turning the camp upside-down looking for people who could be spared from their tasks, Klinger managed to find four donors who were a match. He led them into Pre-Op, where Nellie Malone and Nurse Kellye were waiting to draw their blood. He blanched slightly when he saw the gleaming implement in Nellie's hand. He never could stand needles.

Turning away, he tried to find anything else to look at. But the rest of the ward was about as cheerful a sight as the needle had been. Patients were lying everywhere, waiting to be operated on. Some of their injuries were severe. In one corner, draped hastily with sheets, were a pair of bodies which hadn't been taken outside yet.

Klinger shook his head. Whoever had covered the poor souls hadn't done a very good job. A hand had fallen over one side of the gurney, and he could still see the curly black hair of one of the soldiers protruding from under the sheet.

He came forward, his stomach still weak, and tried to put the hand back on the gurney. The fingers kept getting caught on the rumpled sheet. With a slight growl, Klinger pulled the sheet back from the body. And then he groaned involuntarily.

"Oh, God," he heard himself say in a strangled voice.

Now he recognized that dark, curly hair, crusted with dried blood though it was. It was Private Osborne. The sharp, hilariously inventive boy who had been gunning for a Section Eight ever since he'd been drafted.

The poor kid would never see his Emily again.

To Klinger's alarm, he felt his stomach give a convulsive lurch. After quickly replacing the sheet over the body, he stumbled backward, nearly running into Nellie. She steadied him with a hand on his arm. "Klinger, are you all right?" she said, frowning.

He shook his head, extricating himself frantically from her grasp. He managed to make it outside into the compound before he vomited into the dirt.

* * *

The air in Post-Op was heavy. That was the only word Nellie could think of to describe it. Although it was slightly less cold than anywhere else in the camp, it was decidedly heavy. Hardly anyone spoke, and even when they did, their voices sounded strangely muffled. It was like being underwater.

If the recovery ward back at the Letterman Army Hospital had been this grim and cheerless, Nellie would have done something to brighten up the place. She might have brought in flowers, or a radio. She might have even sung to the patients as a last resort.

But there weren't any flowers. And she didn't feel like singing.

As she took the thermometer out of her patient's mouth and read it, she felt a figure looming over her. "How's Harrison's fever?"

She tried to smile at B.J. Hunnicutt as he looked up from the soldier's chart. "Much better, Captain," she replied, placing the thermometer in the tray beside her. "Ninety-nine and a half. It'll be back to normal soon."

"That's great news."

Nellie mechanically replaced the damp cloth on the soldier's head. "Yeah."

"Hey." She looked up to find the blond surgeon regarding her with concern. "Something eating you, Red?" he asked.

She stood up, shaking her head slowly. "Not _me_, exactly," she replied at length. "I'm a little worried about Klinger. When was the last time you saw him, Captain?"

"I haven't seen him since the wounded first started coming in." He stepped toward her, his voice low. "You think he bolted?"

Nellie frowned, chewing her lip. "I don't know. I'd like to believe he wouldn't, but..." She was unsure how to finish that sentence. "Something really got to him, B.J. I've never seen him like that before. I wanted to check on him, to see if he was all right, but I was so busy, and then I had Post-Op duty, and—"

B.J. held up a hand. "I'll help you look for him. As soon as our shift is over."

She exhaled in relief. "Thank you, Captain."

He smiled and patted her shoulder reassuringly before moving off to check on the other patients. Nellie glanced over at the clock. The afternoon shift would be ending in just a few minutes. It wouldn't take long to find Klinger, she thought, trying to remain positive. He was probably at Rosie's, playing darts or getting sloshed; preferably not both simultaneously. She and B.J. would drag him back to camp, and that would be the end of it.

The door to Post-Op swung open, and Nellie turned toward the sound, hoping it might be Klinger. But it was Colonel Potter, accompanied by a soldier she had never seen before, a tall, solid man with a major's star on his uniform. He strode in purposefully, looking around.

"Well, well, how's my outfit doing?" he asked no one in particular.

When no one answered, Potter gestured to B.J., who reluctantly came over to meet them. "Tolerably well, as you can see, Major," he said, an underlying edge to his usual easy-going manner. "They've been through a lot."

"Don't I know it," the man said with a knowing chuckle. "That's three times we've tried to take that hill, and each time the enemy is ready for us. Like they know we're coming."

"Maybe you've just gotten too predictable," muttered B.J.

"Hunnicutt," Potter said warningly. "Well, step this way, Major Ramsay. I think a few of your men are awake, if you'd like to talk with them."

"Love to." Nellie watched out of the corner of her eye as Ramsay fell into step beside the colonel, his hands behind his back. B.J. just shook his head and went back to his patients. "They're a fine bunch of men, I don't mind telling you," said Ramsay. "Not a coward among them. I shouldn't be surprised that we only lost two of them."

"_Only_ two of them?"

Nellie turned toward Klinger's voice, and nearly dropped the blood pressure cuff she was holding. He was wearing a red cardigan over a plaid frock which ended at the knee, revealing very toned, _very_ hairy calves. On each of his earlobes hung a delicate pearl earring. As he stepped forward with a practiced grace on his red high heels, Nellie scarcely knew whether to laugh or weep.

She caught B.J.'s eye, and he merely shrugged. "At least now we don't have to look for him," he said under his breath.

Major Ramsay had stared openly at Klinger's entrance. He continued to stare openly. "What the hell is _that?_" he asked.

"Are you sure you want to know?" chirped B.J.

"I'll tell you what I am," Klinger declared, planting his fists haughtily on his hips. "I'm Section Eight, head to toe. That's right, I wear women's clothing. I have a steamer trunk full of it. In short, I'm crazy. Totally, completely, barking-on-all-fours crazy."

"No, you're not, Klinger," growled Potter. "Now get back in your uniform, _pronto_."

Klinger ignored him. "And yet," he resumed, pacing up and down the room as the patients watched in mingled horror and amusement, "and _yet_, even with the pearls and the heels and the silky undergarments—"

_Oh, sweet Lord, I didn't need to hear that_, Nellie thought, trying unsuccessfully to block out the mental image.

"—Even with all _that_, I'm still the sanest one in this place. And do you want to know why?"

"_No_," Potter boomed, quite clearly losing his patience. "Get back to your desk before I have to drag you by your damned silky undergarments."

"With all due respect, sir, shut your pie-hole," Klinger shot back.

Nellie gasped, affronted. "Klinger! Have you lost your mind?"

He cast a regretful look at her. His normally tanned face was ashen, and his dark eyes were bleak and hopeless. "Like I said," he said quietly, "I'm the sanest one here. And that's including you, Nellie."

"What are you talking about?" she asked in desperation.

"Yes, I think we'd _all_ like to know that," drawled Major Ramsay, folding his arms over his chest.

Klinger spun on his heel to face him. "Oh, you don't know? You should, _Major_. After all, it's your fault we're all here, isn't it? If it weren't for you, we'd all be somewhere nice and warm and cozy. We'd all be _alive_."

Ramsay raised an eyebrow. "And we're not alive now, son?" he asked sardonically.

Something in Klinger seemed to suddenly snap. "No!" he shouted, causing Nellie to flinch. "We're _not_ alive! Not all of us! Some of us are _dead_, thanks to you and everyone like you! God, am I the only one here who realizes we have no right to _be_ here?"

B.J. stepped forward and placed a hand on the clerk's shoulder. "Klinger, calm down," he said quietly.

Klinger jerked his hand away. "Freddie Osborne!" he said angrily. He was actually shaking. "That poor kid was the only sane one in your whole unit! He was the only one who knew we have _no_ business being here! And now he's dead! And for what? For some worthless _hill!_"

Without warning, he kicked over an instrument tray. Medical tools rained down with a metallic clatter. "What do you have to say to that, _Major?_" he demanded. "What are you going to tell his parents? Or his girl back home in Colorado? Huh?" His voice broke. "Answer me, damn you."

Nellie found herself blinking back tears. _Oh, Klinger._

Slowly, the corporal shook his head. "No," he said in a low voice. "You don't have the answer. None of you ever have the answers." Turning his back on the major, he walked stiffly out of the room and into the night.

There was a short silence.

"If you'll excuse me, Major," said Potter very calmly, "I have to go murder my company clerk."

"No, wait!" Nellie blurted. Remembering herself, she said hastily, "Colonel, please. Let me talk to him first?"

The older man blew an aggravated breath out his nostrils. "Go on," he growled.

Casting a grateful glance at the colonel, Nellie stepped gingerly around the overturned instrument tray and hurried out the door. It was beginning to grow dark, and her night vision wasn't very good. Even so, it didn't take her long to spot him in his red cardigan as he leaned against one of the dull green jeeps which were parked in the motorpool. She walked forward carefully, her boots crunching on the frozen ground. At last she came to a stop beside him, settling back against the vehicle's bumper.

For a while they stood in silence, shivering. Nellie knew his legs had to be freezing.

"I'm sorry about Private Osborne," she said, her voice suddenly loud in the still winter air.

Klinger sighed. "I'm sorry about... back there," he replied. "I wish I could say I don't know what got into me, but I do."

"Me, too," she murmured. _The war._

He craned his neck to look up at the sky, where pinpoints of light were starting to show through the growing dark. "I've been here for so long," he said hollowly. "Why should I even care what happens? No good comes from caring, anyway."

Nellie shook her head. "That's not true," she said softly.

"Yes, it is. There's no point. The minute you start caring about something, it just gets taken away from you." He scoffed. "Look at my ex-wife. No one could have loved her more than I did. And she left me. For my best friend, no less." She heard him make a sound closely resembling a sniffle. "And now this poor kid..."

He took a deep, shaky breath. "But that's it. I'm done with caring. It just... hurts too damn much."

Sighing to herself, Nellie leaned into him and tucked her arm through his.

* * *

Charles Winchester stalked across the compound in his dressing-gown, irritation written in every line of his long frame. He had had every intention of enjoying a quiet evening to himself in the Swamp, but when he returned from the shower, he had found Pierce with one of the nurses. It was all too evident that they were not likely to leave any time in the near future. So Charles had grabbed his scarf, tossed it around his neck, and stormed off, forced to seek refuge elsewhere.

But where? That was the question of the hour. In his current state of _dishabille_, he couldn't exactly stroll down the road to Rosie's. He supposed there was always the Officers' Club, but he didn't have money with him to pay for a drink.

That left the mess tent. _Loathsome rotten philandering Pierce,_ he thought furiously, pulling his scarf tighter around his throat.

His irate wanderings had taken him to the wrong side of the camp. He started to turn back in the direction of the mess tent when he heard a voice. Lieutenant Malone's voice, to be precise.

Odd. It was coming toward the motorpool.

His curiosity piqued, Charles headed toward the sound, wondering who she could be talking to. He stopped short in surprise to find her standing by one of the jeeps, engaged in deep conversation with Klinger. More specifically, Klinger in one of his sprightlier numbers from his golden age of imitation insanity.

And they were holding hands. Good heavens, whatever next?

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Charles knew he should leave. He despised eavesdropping. But his curiosity got the best of him, and he couldn't bring himself to move.

"Now you listen, Klinger," Malone was saying earnestly, "_Max_. I'm fairly certain I could get used to your dressing like this. I could even get used to all your crazy schemes to get out of the Army, and believe me, I've heard them all. Even the ones you haven't told me."

"You have?" the corporal asked uneasily.

She waved a hand dismissively. "I could handle all of that, because at least I'd know you hadn't given up hope. You hadn't lost your fighting spirit." Stepping closer to him, she put her small hands on his shoulders. "But don't you _dare_ stop caring, Max. I honestly don't think I could take it."

Klinger brought his brown hands up to cover hers. Now Charles _knew_ he shouldn't be watching this. "Is that an order?" he asked shyly.

Malone smiled crookedly. "If it has to be. I am not above pulling rank on you."

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "All right, Nellie. You win."

She chuckled and pulled him into an embrace. "That's more like it," she said, her voice muffled by his shoulder. "And don't ever scare me like that again. That _is_ an order."

"Just as you command, my queen." To Charles' indignation, the clerk proceeded to plant kisses all over the nurse's face.

"Klinger, cut it out!" she yelped, laughing.

Charles could bear it no longer. He descended on the pair like an avenging angel. "Get your lecherous Lebanese lips off that poor girl this _instant!_" he snarled.

Klinger released the redhead sheepishly. "Sorry, sir. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is smitten."

"Get out of here, Max," said Malone, still laughing. "And go apologize to Potter and Major Ramsay, before you're court-martialed. Oh, and you might want to change first," she called after him as he dashed off across the compound.

She turned back toward Charles. "I'm sorry about him, Major. He's..." She shook her head a little sadly. "He's had a bad day."

She explained that there had been an incident in Post-Op involving the clerk and the other unit's commanding officer. It was bound to happen to one of them. Charles was actually somewhat surprised; he might have expected it from Pierce or Hunnicutt, but never Klinger.

He heard Malone sigh in exasperation. "Great, I've got Klinger kisses all over my glasses." As she took her spectacles off and cleaned them on her shirt, Charles couldn't help noticing how different her face looked without them. She was almost... Well. He could more readily understand what Klinger saw in her.

Suddenly he realized he'd had no real right to involve himself. "I apologize," he began hesitantly, "if I interrupted anything earlier—"

She chuckled. "Oh, please, Major. Klinger's a sweetheart, but he's just a very good friend, that's all." _I wonder if he knows that,_ he mused. Her smile faded as she replaced her glasses. "He really did give me quite a scare, though, back in Post-Op. He was so... so hopeless. I never want to see him like that again."

Charles wasn't sure why he felt the need to reassure her. "Klinger is nothing if not resilient. He will recover quickly."

"I hope so."

Charles didn't know whether he should continue. Annoyed at his own indecisiveness, he stepped forward awkwardly. "That was... very kind, the way you spoke to Klinger. I doubt he realizes just how fortunate he is to have a friend as... compassionate as you." Suddenly he was giving voice to thoughts he rarely admitted to himself. "I often wish that... I could be more empathetic toward others. I may inspire trust in my patients, but very rarely do I inspire affection. I'm afraid it's simply... not my strong suit."

He stopped, instantly wishing he had never opened his mouth. But to his surprise, he saw that Malone was smiling faintly at him.

"But you _do_ care... right?" she asked softly.

Charles blinked at her. "Well..." He cleared his throat. "Yes. Of course I care."

Her smile widened. "Then that's what matters."

He found himself returning her smile. She wasn't at all bad, for a tiny Irish pixie.

"Would you care to join me for a repulsive cup of coffee?" he asked.

"I'd love to, Major."

Removing his scarf, Charles draped it ceremoniously around her neck, and they strolled off together toward the mess tent.

"You know," said Malone reflectively as they walked, "that was the first time I've ever been kissed by a man in a dress." Charles snorted. "It wasn't nearly as disturbing as I imagined it would be. Not that I envisioned it much to begin with."

"Ah, Malone, you have such a unique outlook on life," he remarked dryly.

"You've got to admit, he has nice gams."

"Oh, _really._"

* * *

A/N: I know, right? Unbearably cute. I reserve the right to some schmalz every now and then. Anyway, that only took me forever. It was the Klinger outburst that took me the longest to write. Boy, do I hate torturing Klinger. It's easy with Charles, because he's a bit of a grouch already. He can take the angst. But Klinger's always so cheerful; it's hard for me to put him through the wringer. At any rate, it's over now! He can go back to being adorably goofy again. And I can get on with the next chapter. Meanwhile, tell me what you thought. Was it _too_ angsty? Keep in mind, this _is_ _M*A*S*H_ we're talking about. The 'A' might as well stand for "angst".

-Octopus


	9. The Toast of the Far East

A/N: I'm pretty sure I don't deserve such awesome readers. But I'm glad you've stuck with me so far. Sorry about giving Hawkeye only one measly line in the last chapter. I didn't realize it until after I'd posted it! What a jerk I am. I'm going to make up for it right now.

Disclaimer: _M*A*S*H_ is the product of much greater minds than mine. I hope they know that imitation is the best form of flattery.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Nine: The Toast of the Far East

In all her years in the service, Margaret Houlihan had been through almost everything: shellings, snipers, sleepless nights in bombed-out aid stations with nothing over her head but a combat helmet. But she could take a few roughs with the smooth. It was worth it to the major to know she was serving her country and saving lives.

But would it _kill_ Supply to send them some decent winter clothes?

Even with two blankets draped over her jacket, she still couldn't get warm as she sat at her vanity mirror, plucking her eyebrows — not an easy task when one's hands are shaking. She had asked her aunt State-side to send her some long-johns, but with Margaret's luck, they probably wouldn't reach Korea before early spring. Asking her father to pull some strings was, of course, out of the question; to admit she needed them would be to imply that she wasn't content with what she'd been given. Why long underwear weren't standard-issue in the first place was completely beyond her.

The whole thing was a moot point, anyway. Mail delivery had yet again been halted for the time being, leaving everyone bored out of their skulls. Except, of course, for Charles. This time it was not newspapers which he was jealously guarding, but his record player. Margaret had asked as politely as she knew how if she could borrow it, but he had adamantly refused to part with it until he'd listened to every last one of his records, the little crumb-bum. He could be as selfish as Frank Burns sometimes.

Margaret scowled. Scratch that: _no one_ was as selfish as Frank Burns.

There was a knock at the door, startling her. She set down her tweezers. "If that's anyone but Winchester, come in," she announced to her reflection.

"Surely you wouldn't let an indispensable surgeon freeze to death on your doorstep," drawled the uppity upper-class voice on the other side.

"I think you'd be surprised how little I care," she shot back.

"Put away your claws, Margaret, I have something which may be of interest to you."

Abandoning all pretense of apathy, Margaret leaped from her chair and threw open the door. She snatched the precious record player from Charles' hands, squealing with delight. "Your gratitude is truly touching," he said dryly.

"Well, I'm sorry, but what took you so long?" she demanded as he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him to keep out the draft. "I've been reading the same magazine I've had since before pleats went out of style. I was afraid I'd go nuts!"

"A trifle late to be worrying about that, don't you think?" Margaret glared at him. "Music is a gift, Margaret. Each individual piece is to be _savored_, like a fine wine, or a _pâté de foie gras_."

Margaret rolled her eyes. "Oh, give it a rest, Charles. It's only a record player."

She thought she heard him say "Philistine" under his breath, but she couldn't be sure. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to aid circulation. "If you were that desperate for something to do to pass the time," he remarked, "you should have asked to borrow some reading material from Lieutenant Malone's library. I'm sure she would have been only too glad to share."

"I would have, but everyone else seemed to have the same idea. By the time I got to her, the only book left was some family heirloom that she absolutely refused to part with, even for me." She shrugged dismissively. "Some book of poems or something."

Charles looked up at her sharply. "Was it Tennyson, by any chance?"

"I think so."

He smiled softly to himself. Margaret raised a quizzical eyebrow at him, and he cleared his throat. "Speaking of Lieutenant Malone," he went on, pacing aimlessly around her small tent, "that was the other reason I wanted to speak with you. Christmas, as you know, is rapidly approaching. It occurred to me that, under the circumstances, some manner of presentation might be appropriate. As Head Nurse, no doubt you know as much about your subordinates as anyone. I thought perhaps you could make some suggestions."

Margaret stared at him. "That _was_ English you were speaking just now, right?"

The Bostonian refused to meet her gaze. "Margaret, _please._ Don't make me repeat myself."

"Wait a minute," she said, as realization dawned on her. "You want to give Lieutenant Malone a Christmas present? _Malone?_" Charles didn't answer. She stifled a laugh. "Oh, Charles. That's adorable!"

"Right then, music hour's over," he said flatly, plucking the record player neatly from her grasp.

"No, no, wait a minute!" Margaret stopped him with a hand on his shoulder as he turned toward the door. "There's no need to get all prickly about it. Of course I'll help you, if I can."

Charles eyed her warily for a moment, before surrendering the record player to her once more. As a safety precaution, the head nurse set it on her vanity, well out of his reach. "Now," she said, placing herself between the practitioner and his prized possession, "just what sort of gift were you thinking of?"

He expelled an irritated breath. "In point of fact, I was hoping you could tell me," he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I know perfectly well that most people don't see me as a sentimental man, and nor do I, for that matter. All the same, I do know from experience that even a small gesture can have a great effect." His blue eyes drifted up toward the tobogganing cap perched on his own head, and he smiled ever so slightly. "However, gift-giving is decidedly not within my usual _métier_. I'm afraid every time I try to think of a gift that would actually _mean_ something to Malone, I find myself woefully lacking."

An inkling that Margaret had been carrying about the tall surgeon for a while now became a full-blown suspicion. "Charles," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral, "have you... are you... I mean, do you...?"

He looked at her strangely. "Eloquent as always, dear Margaret," he dead-panned.

For once, she was too preoccupied to think of a snide response. "Do you... _like_ Nurse Malone?" she managed.

Charles' eyes bulged. "For heaven's sake, what _is_ this, elementary school?" he said indignantly. "Why does everyone in this dissipated sewer seem to believe that it is fundamentally impossible for a man and a woman to enjoy a meaningful friendship without succumbing to their animalistic desires?" His voice was at its most sardonic and biting. "You and I are _friends_, Margaret. Does that automatically imply that we are romantically involved?"

"Certainly not!" she exclaimed, horrified at the very thought.

"There, you see? My point precisely. Lieutenant Malone is a _friend_ as well; one I hold in high esteem. I am _trying_ to think of a gift that will not seem to her a mere perfunctory measure, and I am cudgelling my _brains_ over it! Now will you help me or not?"

"Okay, okay!" Margaret sighed. He could be so touchy sometimes. "Well, there's always the old stand-bys: perfume, jewelry, chocolates. Most women can't turn those down. But on the other hand, from what I know about Malone, she's not exactly like most women. She's kind of..." She hesitated.

Charles caught it instantly. "'Kind of' _what?_" he demanded.

"Oh, I don't know! Different, I guess. A little odd." He glared at her. "Now don't get your hackles up, I never said it was a bad thing."

"I should say not," he said with dignity.

She threw up her hands. "I'm sorry, but the truth is, I don't know much about Malone," she told him. "I'm her superior officer. If I allow myself to get all chummy with my nurses, I lose a lot of my authority with them." She shook her head. "Look, we're going about this the wrong way. Let's start with what _you_ know about her. Maybe that'll give us some ideas."

"Very well." Charles mused for a moment. "We share a lot of the same interests. She enjoys poetry and classic literature. She has a special fondness for Shakespeare." Margaret was finding it difficult to suppress a knowing smile. If Charles _wasn't_ already crazy about the red-haired nurse despite his official protests to the contrary, it was only a matter of time. "She's also a devotee of classical music. She especially likes Dvořák."

Margaret had heard enough. "So what you're saying is, you don't know anything about her."

He blinked. "Are you hard of hearing, Margaret? I just said—"

She held up a hand. "I know what you said. What you don't seem to realize, Major, is that you only know what you _want_ to know about her; what she has in common with _you_. What about all of Malone's interests that you _don't_ share? Do you know what she likes besides literature and music?"

Charles had grown very still. A pensive frown had settled on his face. "No, I'm afraid I don't," he said quietly.

Taking pity on him, Margaret stood up and patted him on the shoulder. "Then maybe you'd better find out."

* * *

"Boy, I wish my taste buds would die before I beat them to it," muttered Hawkeye as he stood in line for breakfast. All he wanted for Christmas was a decent meal, even if it meant making it himself. He'd seen his father at the kitchen stove enough times to know how to cook an egg. And it wasn't with a blow-torch.

On the other side of the mess line, Igor Straminsky shrugged helplessly. "I don't make the food, Captain, I just serve it."

"Well, it's flagrant false advertising. Those hashbrowns aren't even _brown_. The least you could do is label them as hash _grays_."

"We're not allowed to label the food, sir. It just causes more disappointment."

The surgeon waved his hand dismissively. "Never mind, Igor. Keep up the good work."

Hawkeye had been a late riser that morning, due largely to the fact he had been on the night shift in Post-Op, and was actually allowed to sleep in for once. As a result he wasn't expecting many people to be at breakfast this late. As he went through the mess line, he looked around the tent and saw that he'd been right. Other than a handful of surly-looking corpsmen, the only other diner at _Chez Garbage_ was the bushy-haired object of Klinger's affections, Mousy Malone. The nurse was holding a book in one hand, frowning at it in deep concentration while she picked at her food distractedly. She was the very picture of studious social ineptitude.

The more Hawkeye looked back on how he had teased Klinger about her, the more guilty he felt. She was a nice kid, when it came right down to it. And there was obviously something the clerk saw in her, or he wouldn't be drooling all over her boots. Maybe he'd been too hasty in pigeon-holing her in the "No, Thanks" department. The least he could do was get to know her, for Klinger's sake.

He strolled over to Malone's table and tapped her on the shoulder. "Hiya, Red, mind if I join you?" he asked pleasantly.

She glanced up from her book with a slight smile. "Not at all, Cap— I mean, Hawkeye," she amended sheepishly.

"Great, I always knew you were a sport." With a noisy clatter, he set down his tray on the table and settled in beside her. "What makes me treat you the way that I do?" he crooned in Malone's ear, enjoying the strange look she was giving him. "Gee baby, ain't I good to you?"

The girl raised a thick auburn eyebrow at him. "Been inhaling a little too much ether, have we, Hawkeye?" she asked dryly.

"No, no, nothing like that," he replied, munching on a piece of burnt toast. "Give me a little credit. I'm just happy to see you, that's all."

This time both of the nurse's eyebrows went up. "You saw me last night, if you'll recall," she said with a chuckle, and he had to admit, her voice was pretty fantastic. Low and smooth, like Marlene Dietrich without the German accent. "I had the night shift, too. Remember, I was the one crocheting in the corner?"

"No, yeah, no, I know that," he said quickly, although for the life of him, he couldn't recall her being in Post-Op the night before. "But we don't get a chance to talk much, you know? Seems like either I'm working, or you're working, or... you've got your head in a book..."

At this Malone blushed. "_Touché_," she said with a crooked smile, closing her book and setting it aside. "Sorry about that. All my fancy book-learnin', as my dad would say, has clearly robbed me of my conversational skills."

"Your dad isn't much of a reader?"

"Oh, no, he loved books. He just liked to give me a hard time. Teasing was a sign of affection between us."

_Was?_ thought Hawkeye. "Did he pass away?" he asked quietly.

Malone nodded minutely, her eyes on her breakfast tray. "About six years ago."

"I'm sorry." He really was. As an only child, with his mother already deceased, his own father back in Crabapple Cove was all the family he had. He didn't even want to think about what it would be like when the time finally came for him to go.

"It's okay," Malone was saying. "I've still got my brother Danny, and my uncle back in California."

"And Klinger," he said jokingly.

Her silly lop-sided smile returned. "And Klinger."

"How's he doing, by the way?" he asked. "I heard he had a meltdown the other day in Post-Op. Something about a dead soldier?"

"Mmm." She sipped her coffee and cringed slightly. "A young private came in a few weeks ago with a shrapnel wound. Private Osborne." Hawkeye nodded; the name sounded familiar. "He and Max hit it off immediately. As it happened, Osborne was trying to get out on a Section Eight, of all things." She smiled, but it quickly faded. "The next time Max saw the kid, he was dead on a stretcher. He took it really hard."

"I don't blame him." _This crummy place._

"Anyway, he sort of blew up at the boy's commanding officer, as well as Colonel Potter. Thankfully, Potter was mercifully lenient when he learned all the circumstances. In fact, the last I heard, he was thinking about letting Max take a weekend off in Tokyo."

Hawkeye raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Maybe I should have a nervous breakdown," he joked. "I could use a vacation."

Malone was not amused. "Don't say things like that, Hawkeye."

"You're right, I'm sorry," he told her. "You know me. I'm physically incapable of being serious. I got a note from home and everything." He was fully aware that he was babbling. There was something about the way this nurse looked at him that made him feel like a specimen under a microscope. And he didn't think she was even aware of it.

He cleared his throat and went on hastily. "But that's good. I mean, I'm glad for Klinger. He deserves it. He's a _sheikh_ among men."

"I can't argue with you there." Suddenly she snapped her fingers. "That reminds me, if he _is_ going to Tokyo, I've got to ask him if he could pick up some things for me while he's there."

"Anything special?"

She gave a little shrug, smiling mysteriously. "Just some Christmas shopping."

"Oh yeah?" He wiggled his eyebrows. "Anything for the wittiest, most charming, and devastatingly handsome surgeon in all of Korea?"

"I couldn't say, I've never met him," she teased.

Hawkeye rolled his eyes theatrically. "Women. I'll never understand you."

"Well, that's hardly surprising, Pierce," came a droll voice over his shoulder. He turned to see Charles smirking down at him. "I've never known you to display much of an understanding of either gender."

"That's funny, I never knew that you never knew," Hawkeye replied.

"Ah, you see, I knew you were going to say that." Charles took a seat across from them and raised his coffee mug in greeting. He must have already had breakfast earlier, Hawkeye realized, because he had no tray in front of him.

The red-haired nurse smiled. "Good morning, Major. Did you sleep well?"

"I did, Malone, thank you," he replied graciously. "And you?"

"Very well, thanks."

"Delighted to hear it."

Hawkeye stared at Charles in ill-concealed bewilderment. What the hell was all this? Usually the Bostonian prowled the 4077th like a tiger with a toothache, looking for some unfortunate soul to maul. But here he was, making polite small talk with Mousy Malone and behaving almost like a decent human being. It was unfathomable.

"Before I forget, Malone," he was saying, "I wanted to thank you for your latest loaner. It's been a long time since I've read _Bleak House_. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed it."

"Not at all, Major. It's one of my favorites."

"_Bleak House_?" Hawkeye echoed.

Charles cast an anguished look at him. "Dickens, of course," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Pierce, I despair of you sometimes."

"Only sometimes? That's news to me."

"Don't feel bad," Malone told Hawkeye with a smile, "my brother can't stand Dickens. He says the characters are too unrealistic. I can see his point. But at the same time, that's kind of what I love about them. And anyway, they're no more bizarre or outlandish than some of the people I've met since I came here."

"Too true," Charles said wryly. "I thought Miss Havisham took the proverbial cake, until I saw Klinger for the first time. I was convinced that the reason she wore her ubiquitous wedding gown was because the corporal had purloined the remainder of her wardrobe."

The nurse laughed, and Hawkeye blinked in disbelief. _Dickens jokes? Really?_ He was glad Malone understood all of Charles' obscure literary references, because nobody else did.

The major was studying Malone over his coffee cup. "You seem very devoted to your brother... Daniel, if I remember correctly?" She nodded. "Tell us more about him. He sounds like an interesting young man."

Malone seemed mildly surprised at his request. "He is," she agreed. "Danny's very bright; he always was, actually. He was reading before he even started school. Of course, I may have had something to do with that," she added with a suspiciously unrepentant smile. Charles chuckled, and she sighed. "I can't believe how long it's been since I saw him. I talked to him on the phone right before he left for Pusan, but that was months ago. I didn't even get to see him when I landed in Seoul."

"That's too bad, Red." Hawkeye patted her hand. "I wouldn't worry about it. You'll see him soon."

"Yes, I'm quite sure of it," Charles said quietly. He cleared his throat and stood up. "Well, if you two will excuse me, I must be on my way. There are several patients in Post-Op to whom I must attend." He gave his customary half-bow. "Malone, Pierce."

Hawkeye watched him exit the mess tent, still reeling from the experience. "I have to say," Malone remarked, her eyes wide behind her glasses, "that was by far the most agreeable I've ever seen the major."

"Yeah, you and me both," murmured Hawkeye thoughtfully. "I wonder what he's up to."

* * *

The night was freezing. The draft coming in under the door of the little office was like a blast from the Arctic. Seated at his desk, Maxwell Klinger stared at the door blearily. He was debating whether or not he should shove his foot locker against it to keep out the cold. But if there was an emergency and Colonel Potter or someone else needed to use the telephone, he would almost certainly get chewed out for blocking the entrance. He could never win.

The clerk wrapped his matted fur coat tighter around himself, his teeth chattering. It was half past eleven, and the stack of requisition forms he still needed to fill out before morning didn't seem to be getting any smaller. Thankfully, the mail crisis was over, and people would shortly be receiving packages from home again; at least that would get them off his back. But he still had a lot to do before he could take that weekend leave in Tokyo. It seemed like the work never ended. Somewhere in Iowa, he knew, there was a short kid in glasses just laughing his head off.

_God, I miss Radar._

He could hardly wait to get out of this dump. Hawkeye had predictably teased him about bringing him back a geisha or two, but he could care less about the women. All he was looking forward to was two whole nights' sleep in an actual bed. Besides, there was only one woman he had on his mind. And he couldn't get her out.

Klinger groaned and tossed his pen on the desk. It wouldn't be so unbearable if Nellie wasn't so damn _nice_ to him. Disgust and indifference he could deal with; he'd dealt with it plenty in the past. But Nellie held his arm when they walked, and helped him out in his office when she was off-duty, and fussed over him like the apple of her eye, never suspecting that it was taking every ounce of his self-control not to grab her and kiss that crooked smile right off her face.

And she was so _smart_, the little dummy! How could she _not_ know?

Leaning back in his chair and stretching his tired muscles, Klinger stared up at the ceiling. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew someone was shaking him lightly by the shoulder.

His dark eyes fluttered open, and he saw a pair of green ones gazing back at him. "You'll get a crick in your neck if you sleep like that," said a low voice in mild reproof.

"Nellie!" He started to scramble to his feet, but small hands reached out from behind him and gently yet insistently pushed him down into his chair. "It's eleven-thirty. What are doing up so late?"

He twisted his head around, and he saw that she was wrapped in a gray dressing gown, with a pair of slippers over her bare feet. She wasn't wearing her glasses, and her wild red curls, which she usually wore in an untidy bun, were unbound and spilling down her shoulders.

Klinger realized he was staring most inappropriately. "What the heck are you doing wandering around the compound in your pajamas?" he demanded. "You could get pneumonia or something!"

Before he could protest, Nellie plucked his ear-flapped hat from his head and tossed it on his desk among his endless papers. "I'm more worried about you, Max," she said, leaning her elbows on the back of his chair. "You've been sitting here in that awful chair for hours. You won't be able to walk in the morning."

"Probably not," admitted Klinger, "but if I don't get this work done before tomorrow, it won't get done period. And then I'm sure to catch hell from Colonel Potter. Oops," he blurted, realizing too late what he'd said. "Excuse the language, Nellie. I'm just so tired. I'm not thinking... clearly..."

He trailed off abruptly, nearly swallowing his own tongue as he suddenly felt fingers sinking into his hair, gently massaging his head. As hard as he tried to object, he could find neither the words nor the willpower to do so. His eyes drifted shut, luxuriating in the feel of Nellie's dainty fingertips meandering through his hair, her nails dragging lightly across his scalp. It was pure heaven.

Or so he thought, until her hands moved slowly down the nape of his neck until they reached his stiff shoulders, pulling back the collar of his fur coat to gain better access. Klinger nearly groaned as she kneaded his aching muscles, and his own hands reflexively tightened in his lap. He knew he should be protesting; it wasn't proper for company clerks to be receiving massages late at night by cute young nurses, after all. But the last thing in the world he wanted was for her to stop. He felt like he was in a fog. Even when he opened his eyes, everything was all... hazy.

Suddenly the hands fell away, leaving him disappointed and strangely bereft. There was a soft sigh behind him. "I'm sorry, Max. I shouldn't have come here. But I just... I had to..."

"Had to what?" he said. Or rather, he had planned on saying it. But as he rose to his feet and turned to speak, the words died on his lips.

The redhead's dressing-gown had fallen open, and she was wearing a thin, cream-colored nightdress trimmed with lace. Her skin was pale and flawless, and Klinger couldn't help wondering if it was as soft as it looked. But it was the look in her sage-green eyes that had paralyzed his vocal chords. It was desire. Yearning. Need.

"Whoa, Nellie," he said hoarsely.

She cautiously stepped closer to him, until she was only an arm's-length away. "I had to know," she said, her voice even lower than usual. "I had to be absolutely sure... of the way you felt."

"The way I... felt?" he echoed dumbly. His tongue was like a brick in his mouth. And why wasn't it cold anymore? He was freezing half to death only a moment ago.

Nellie blushed and lowered her gaze. "The way you feel," she murmured, looking down at her fidgeting hands. "I needed to be sure that the way you feel... was the same way _I_ feel."

A lock of red hair had fallen in front of her left eye. Klinger swallowed hard, then nervously reached up and tucked the errant curl behind her ear. His fingers hesitated a moment, before lightly tracing her delicate cheekbone. She didn't move her head, or push him away. Instead, she leaned into his palm, bringing her own hand up to loosely grasp his wrist.

Finally she raised her eyes to meet his, staring up at him through her thick lashes. That was all that it took. Hardly aware of what he was doing, his hand moved through her hair to cradle the back of her head. Before he could talk himself out of it, he closed the distance and lowered his lips to meet hers.

_Wow_ was his last coherent thought.

It was just a peck, at first. But still, _what_ a peck. He had to tilt his head, of course, to keep his stupid nose from getting in the way. But then gradually, he willed himself to relax, and his arms found their way around Nellie's small waist. With a sigh, she leaned into his embrace, and he took it as a sign of approval and deepened the kiss. That hazy feeling returned, stronger than ever.

"Klinger..."

"Mmm," he mumbled against her lips. "Call me Max."

"Klinger, wake up."

He paused in bewilderment. "Come again?"

"Wake _up_, you lethargic Lebanese!"

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him roughly. His eyes snapped open, and he found himself seated at his desk, his arms empty and his hat still on his head. He looked up to see Major Winchester glaring down at him impatiently.

Klinger groaned and put his head in his hands. Even in his dreams, the major never failed to ruin the moment.

"What on earth is the matter with you, Klinger?" Winchester demanded. "You sound like a dyspeptic cow."

"Gee, thanks, Major," he muttered through his hands. He supposed he should be grateful to the surgeon for waking him; if he'd slept through the night, the requisition forms would have been left unfinished, and he'd never have gotten to go to Tokyo. At the moment, however, all he could feel was resentment. So what if it hadn't been real? It was still _fantastic._

He leaned back and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Well, as long as I'm awake, cold, and miserable, what can I do for you, sir?" he asked grumpily.

"First and foremost, you can watch your tone, Corporal," said Winchester in a warning tone. "I am still your superior officer, regardless of the late hour. However, I shall be brief," he continued as he slowly paced the office, his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown. "A rumor has spread like wildfire through the camp that you are Tokyo-bound. If that is indeed the case, I'm afraid there is a favor that, reluctantly, I must ask of you before you leave."

Klinger held up a hand. "I'm going to have to stop you there, Major," he said firmly. "If you're looking for an errand boy to do your shopping for you, you'd better get in line. You've got seven other people in front of you."

Winchester chuckled indulgently. "Rest assured, Klinger, I would not and _do_ not trust you to pick up my laundry. I would certainly never entrust you with the task of conveying precious goods from Tokyo, that pearl of the Orient, to this Hell on earth known as Uijeongbu. It is quite a different matter on which I require your marginal assistance."

_What a flatterer_, Klinger thought irritably. "If that's the way you ask people for help, you can forget it. I'm busy enough already."

"You would be remunerated, of course, for your services."

"Not for all the _baklava_ in Beirut," Klinger growled through his teeth.

Winchester took a deep breath, as if to restrain himself from inflicting some form of bodily harm on the clerk. "If you must know," he said levelly, "it is not for my own benefit that I ask this of you. It is for Lieutenant Malone's."

At this Klinger sat bolt upright in his chair. "For Nellie?" he asked, his pulse quickening.

"I understand her happiness is somewhat important to you," the major said quietly.

He nearly choked. "Are you kidding? I'd do anything to make her happy. Hell, I'd let Zale throw pies in my face for an hour, just to hear her laugh!"

"How poetic," drawled Winchester. "But I'm fairly certain that such an extravagant gesture won't be necessary." He tapped his fingertips on the desk. "I need to know which channels I would have to go through in order to request a temporary transfer."

Klinger raised an eyebrow. "A transfer?" he repeated, puzzled. "Why would you want to transfer Nellie anywhere?"

"_Will_ you let me finish?" the surgeon nearly shouted in frustration. "The transfer," he continued in a calmer tone, "is not for Malone. It is for her brother."

_Her brother?_ "Danny?" He frowned in thought for a moment, until the realization of what the major was asking dawned on him. "You're saying you want Danny transferred _here_, to the 4077th, at least temporarily?"

Winchester clapped his hands with a mocking slowness. "_Bravo_, Klinger. That is precisely what I am saying. The question is, can you do it?"

He shrugged. "I don't see why not. As long as it's only for a week or so. When are we talking?"

"The week of Christmas," Winchester replied, "if at all possible."

Klinger nodded. "I'll definitely do what I can. Colonel Potter has the final say, but I doubt he'll have a problem with it." He glanced at the surgeon, who was absently straightening the papers on his desk. "I know you're not going to like hearing this, Major. But this is a really nice thing you're doing for Nellie."

"I am painfully aware of it," he said wryly.

The clerk hesitated. "If I may ask... _Why_, exactly, are you doing it, sir?"

For a long time there was no answer, and it seemed to Klinger that he would never get one. But finally Winchester cleared his throat. "Suffice it to say," he said in a low, even voice, "her happiness is somewhat important to me, as well."

* * *

A/N: D'awww. I heart Charles. He's actually the "toast of the far East" mentioned in the chapter title. He's really quite sweet. He just wants everyone to think he's a jerk. And I heart Klinger. By the way, I _am_ sorry about that dream sequence. I'm fully aware that I'm evil. Also, I've been debating with myself for a while on one thing. I've been wondering if I should list Klinger as the other main character for this story in its description. As of now, only Charles is listed. But Klinger figures prominently in my story, too. However, I'm afraid that if I list them as the two main characters, people will think this is a Charles/Klinger romance. And the very idea of people assuming as much is abhorrent to my soul. Should I, or shouldn't I? I defer to you guys.

Anyway. Hopefully I'll have the next chapter completed before the twenty-fifth, but if I don't, an early Merry Christmas to you all. :)

-Octopus


	10. For the Man Who Has Everything

A/N: Holy Toledo! When I said I'd have the next chapter up by Christmas, I hadn't realized it was only ten days away. Looks like my Christmas present to you guys is a little late. Sorry about that. :( Oh, and I added Klinger as the other main character. He does deserve it, after all. Like Tonygirl said, let those of the dirty minds think what they wish.

Disclaimer: I'm getting tired of saying that _M*A*S*H_ doesn't belong to me, but I'll say it anyway: _M*A*S*H_ doesn't belong to me!

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Ten: For the Man Who Has Everything

It was impossible to write a letter while wearing gloves. But it was almost as impossible, B.J. Hunnicutt observed to his dismay, to write a letter while _not_ wearing gloves. He found he had to pause in between sentences to blow on his chilled hands. And he was already seated at the warmest table in the Officers' Club, right next to the oil heater. He wondered how much money and energy it would take to build a sauna. Probably more than he could afford.

Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the task at hand.

_As I write this, I can just picture you and Erin parked in front of the fireplace — you in that big, fluffy robe of yours, and Erin in her footie pajamas that make her look like a little polar bear. You've probably been teaching her Christmas carols. If you ever manage to get any of her singing on a recording, be sure to send it to me. I'll bet she has the voice of a squeaky angel._

He grinned and reached into the tin of cookies Peg had sent him. Gingerbread, of course.

_Shall I describe the holiday season over here at the 4077th? You got it, sugar. Well, as cold as it is, everyone here has certainly been getting into the Christmas spirit. Hawkeye has been walking around the camp all week with a sprig of mistletoe at the ready. No one seems to know where he got it. Colonel Potter put a bridle with sleighbells on it around Sophie's neck. Now every time he rides her, it sounds like Santa Claus is coming to Korea. Here at the O. Club, Father Mulcahy just got finished playing "Winter Wonderland" on the piano, while Margaret shook the rafters with her singing. Kealani Kellye taught me how to say "Merry Christmas" in Hawaiian. (It's "Mele Kalikimaka!") Nellie Malone is cranking out socks like a madwoman. Even Charles Ebenezer Winchester is lousy with Christmas cheer. Just this morning, he brought his record player with him to Post-Op and played "The Nutcracker Suite" for the patients. It was surprisingly human of him._

_And as for me? Well, my darling, I'm afraid I've got California on my mind. You and Erin are in my thoughts every day, Peg. And I just can't bring myself to believe that I'll be spending Christmas without you._

B.J. paused to warm his hands, and to swallow a sudden lump in his throat.

At that moment the door of the Officers' Club flew open, and Hawkeye came in from the cold, his teeth chattering loudly. As he slumped down next to B.J., he spied the tin of cookies on the table and reached out to snag one. B.J. slapped his hand away and went back to writing.

Hawkeye pretended to be indignant. "Fine, hog all your precious cookies to yourself," he said haughtily. "But no amount of baked goods will keep your tootsies warm."

As he spoke, he pulled a pair of wool socks from inside his jacket. B.J. stared at them with wide eyes. "I don't believe it! She finished them already?"

"Size twenty-four and a half, and red to match your nose," said Hawkeye.

"Red to match the giver!" B.J. exclaimed. "God bless that woolly-headed weaver of wonders."

He pushed the cookie tin toward Hawkeye, who in turn tossed him the socks. He immediately removed his combat boots and threadbare Army-issue socks and began to pull on the new ones, cackling with maniacal glee.

"Oh, sure," Hawkeye said sarcastically as he decapitated a gingerbread man. "Go ahead, rub it in. But _mine_ are going to be purple. It's the color of royalty, you know."

"You're getting crumbs all over my letter, Your Majesty."

"Sorry." He carefully brushed away the cookie debris, and if he read any of what B.J. had written, he very decently made no comment. That's what best friends are for.

B.J. sighed as he laced up his boots again. "Well, I think I'm going to go back and finish this in the Swamp. Margaret looks like she's about to get her second wind any minute."

"Your cue to exit. Later, Beej."

He let Hawkeye take one last cookie before closing the tin and collecting his paper and pen. With a wave, he left the Officers' Club and began walking across the compound toward the Swamp, squinting his eyes against the freezing wind. On the way, he heard a familiar nasal voice humming to itself near the animal hutches. With a grin, B.J. course-corrected and hurried toward the owner of the voice.

When he reached the hutches, he stopped in surprise. Klinger was indeed back from Tokyo, but this was a much different Klinger than the one who had left the 4077th the previous Friday. Under his ubiquitous fur coat, he was wearing his neatly pressed Class A uniform, and his unstylishly long hair was cut and fastidiously combed and pomaded. Even the fingernails on the hands which fed Radar's rabbits and guinea pigs were pristine.

"Welcome back, Klinger," said B.J. when he had found his voice. "Snazzy new do you've got there. I didn't know this war was a formal affair."

Klinger glanced up from the hutches and smiled. "Oh, you like it, Captain?" he asked, gesturing toward his hair. "I got it done in Tokyo." He cleared his throat and looked around surreptitiously before leaning in and adding in a low voice, "Do you think she'll notice?"

B.J. didn't have to ask who the corporal was talking about. "She'd have to be blind not to," he replied. "Even _with_ her glasses."

He watched as Klinger deposited a handful of hay into one of the hutches and absently scratched the rabbit behind its ears. "Yeah, Nellie's a class act. She deserves a classy guy." His hand slowly fell back to his side. "Which is why I'm probably nuts for thinking I have more than a snowball's chance in Hell with her."

The blond surgeon sighed. That was the problem with enlisted men, he had come to realize. If enough people told them they weren't worth the paper their drafts were printed on, pretty soon they started believing it.

"Come on, Klinger," he said. "I may not know Red as well as you do, but I do know she's not the kind of girl to be impressed by money or prominence. If you ask me, you're not giving her enough credit."

Klinger shrugged half-heartedly, fiddling with the latch on the hutch. "Yeah. I don't know. I guess. Maybe you're right."

"Hey, listen." Klinger looked up at him. "Any girl who wants you to change everything about yourself is no girl worth having. Trust me on that." He smiled. "That's why I married Peg. She knows all my faults, and she still loves me just the way I am."

The clerk grinned. "The poor sap," he joked.

"Don't I know it." He reached up and disarranged Klinger's carefully coifed hair. "The point is, unless you ask Nellie, you'll never know."

"Yeah, yeah." Klinger waved dismissively. "I know. Chalk it up to cowardice, I guess." He started to smooth down his disheveled hair, but thought better of it and left it the way it was. "Thanks, B.J."

As B.J. turned to go, Klinger called after him. "So, your wife."

He stopped. "Yeah?"

"She must not know about the mustache."

B.J. laughed and continued on his way back to the Swamp, picking up his pace as the temperature steadily dropped. After he had stirred the feeble little fire in the woodstove, he sat down on his lumpy cot and pulled the letter from his inner jacket pocket, smoothing it out on his knee. He stared at it for a moment in indecision, pen in hand. Then he began to write.

_I told you I grew a mustache, didn't I, honey?_

* * *

To Colonel Sherman Potter, the sweet, slightly musty smell that wafted across the compound from the stable was the most wonderful aroma in the world; better than the most extravagant perfume money could buy. As he walked toward it, carrying a thick wool blanket over his arm, he inhaled deeply, already feeling his mood begin to lift. He began to whistle an old cowboy ballad, and smiled to himself as he heard a soft answering nicker from behind the fence.

Potter chuckled as the chocolate-colored mare pranced up to the fence, tossing her mane. "I never can seem to wake up before you, Soph," he said in amusement, stroking her velvety muzzle.

Opening the gate, he gave her a gentle shove to move her out of the way as he stepped inside and closed it behind him. "Look what I've got for you, girl. A brand spanking new blanket, straight out of the Sears and Roebuck catalogue. You'll be the envy of every equine in the Eastern Hemisphere."

After hanging the new blanket over the fence, he proceeded to remove the old moth-eaten one from the horse's back and toss it aside. Then he picked up the new one and draped it carefully over her. With a quick motion, she swung her head around, took a corner of the blanket between her teeth, and pulled it off onto the ground.

"Now, don't give me any trouble, Soph," said Potter gruffly, grabbing the blanket up from the frozen dirt. He spread it out and placed it on the mare's back. Instantly she tugged it off again. "Damned crazy animal!" he growled in frustration. "Don't you know what's good for you?"

The horse raised her head and tousled the colonel's gray hair. He sighed and patted her neck. "I guess you don't like change any more than I do," he said with a soft smile.

As he bent down to pick up the old, worn blanket from the ground, he heard footsteps approaching. He looked up to see Major Winchester striding swiftly toward the stable. Potter fought down the urge to roll his eyes. If Winchester was coming to have a word with him, it was undoubtedly a word of complaint about something. And he wasn't in the mood.

"Winchester, if this is about something Pierce and/or Hunnicutt did, file a written report and give it to Klinger," he said firmly as he put Sophie's old blanket back in place. "That way I'll be sure to forget to read it."

The tall major stopped outside the fence and gave an awkward chuckle. "Worry not, Colonel, I come on another matter," he replied, his tone surprisingly diffident.

"In that case, come on in."

Potter watched in amusement as Winchester hesitated a moment before stepping through the gate and into the corral, picking his way carefully through the scattered hay and manure. Between his coat, scarf, gloves, and tobogganing cap, the only part of him that was visible was the top half of his face. His blue eyes were distracted, far away.

"Anything the matter, Winchester?" he asked quietly.

The Bostonian cleared his throat before replying. "I am not certain," he said slowly. "At least, not yet. This may be none of my business, Colonel, but did you happen to sign a request form for a temporary transfer?"

_Strange question for you to be asking_, thought Potter. But he decided to humor the younger man. "As a matter of fact, I did. It was for a Private Malone, down in Pusan. Would that be any relation to our Nurse Nellie?"

"Her brother," said Winchester with a slight nod. He looked down at his boots which, despite his painstaking efforts, were adorned with Sophie's best fertilizer. "I was wondering — and again, stop me if I'm overstepping my bounds — if that request ever went through."

This was getting stranger and stranger. "It did," Potter said guardedly, eyeing Winchester with a raised eyebrow. "Almost a week ago, in fact."

The major shook his head. "Odd," he muttered to himself in a low voice.

Potter sighed. This nonsense had gone far enough. "Winchester," he said firmly, "I can't help you unless I know what your trouble is. Now what is it about this transfer that's got you in such a flap?"

Winchester met his gaze again, and Potter was surprised to see genuine concern in his eyes. "Merely that if the transfer was processed nearly a week ago," he said quietly, "the private should have arrived before now."

The colonel nodded silently in understanding. He busied himself with straightening Sophie's blanket. "Well," he said finally, "I wouldn't think too much of it. Odds are, he probably ran into some complications on the way. It's been known to happen. Your own transfer didn't go so hot, if you'll remember. As I recall, your jeep got blown to smithereens, and you had to hitch a ride on a passing ox-cart."

Winchester shuddered. "Please, Colonel. I had almost succeeded in blocking out that particular memory."

Potter suppressed a smile. Good to know that smart-alecky inflection in the major's voice hadn't gone anywhere. He reached up and placed his hand on the taller man's shoulder. "Don't worry, son. He'll turn up soon. Just be patient."

As Winchester absently patted Sophie's neck with a gloved hand, it seemed to Potter that his shoulders sagged, as if under an immense weight.

"Yes," he said after a while. "I'm sure you're right." His hand fell away, and he turned and trudged out of the corral. At the gate, he paused. "I suppose all I can do is pray that the boy turns up in one piece," he said grimly.

He closed the gate behind him with a click, and Potter watched him leave, shaking his head in amazement. "Wouldn't you know it, Soph," he murmured, petting the animal on the nose. "Just when you've got someone pegged as a complete horse's ass, they have to go and prove you wrong."

The mare snorted.

"Oh, you know what I mean, girl."

* * *

This was the only time of the year when Nellie was glad to have thick hair. While everyone else wrapped themselves up like mummies in their hats, scarves, and earmuffs, Nellie's bushy red mane served as all three at once. All she had to do was leave it down, and it covered her ears and neck as well as any winter attire could have done. She thought of Major Winchester with his unadorned scalp and felt a pang of sympathy.

Out of all the gifts she had purchased for her friends at the 4077th, it was the one she had chosen for Winchester which was giving her the most trepidation. He had such expensive tastes, and though it hadn't been cheap by any stretch of the imagination, she was still worried it might not be good enough. Even the wrapping looked chintzy and inferior.

She sighed. Either way, she would know soon enough.

After one last check to make sure she wasn't missing anything, Nellie lifted the stack of packages from her narrow bunk and trudged out of the nurses' tent to face the freezing winter air outside. The compound was completely deserted; it seemed everyone was already at the Christmas party. As she walked slowly toward the mess tent, trying not to drop her precious cargo, she heard the sound of singing: Father Mulcahy was leading a rousingly unharmonious rendition of "Angels We Have Heard on High". However, no one seemed to know the words to the Latin chorus. Nellie even thought she heard someone sing, "Gloria's in Aunt Chelsea's stable."

She laughed and shook her head. That was definitely Hawkeye's voice.

As she pushed open the door to the mess tent, several of the nurses turned and waved her over. "Hold on a second, girls, I have to put down these presents," she called.

"Presents?" Hawkeye twisted around in his seat until his eyes locked on the parcels in Nellie's arms. "Hey, everybody, look! Santa sent us his cutest elf! Gimme, gimme, gimme!"

"Uh-oh, you said the P-word," said B.J. as he came forward and took some of the packages off her hands, placing them around a scraggly-looking tree.

Colonel Potter sighed. "All right, I guess now is as good a time as any to exchange gifts," he said. "Father, we'll continue the caroling real soon, don't worry."

Nellie rolled her eyes as Hawkeye perused the tags on each gift, shamelessly trying to find his name on one of them. "Settle the kettle, Hawkeye," she said wryly. "It wouldn't look very good for the 4077th if our chief surgeon started foaming at the mouth." She picked out two identical square boxes. "There. One for you and one for B.J."

"Aww shucks, Red, you shouldn't have," said B.J. with a smile.

"Oh boy, oh boy!" Hawkeye tore off the plain white paper and opened the cardboard box inside. "Hey, a shaving mug!" he exclaimed.

"Same here," said B.J.

"The last time I dared to enter the Swamp, I noticed you two fighting over Major Winchester's mug," Nellie explained. "At least now he'll have one less reason for wanting to murder you."

"Where's the fun in that?" Hawkeye poked Nellie in the ribs, and she hit him. "It's great, kid. Thanks."

"Now open ours," said B.J., handing her a small box wrapped in red paper. "Hawk and I picked it out on our last trip to Seoul."

Frowning in puzzlement, Nellie unwrapped the box and lifted off the lid. She inhaled sharply at what lay nestled inside: a beautiful pair of combs with little jade stones set in silver. "Now maybe you'll have less trouble keeping all that hair out of your face," said Hawkeye jokingly.

Nellie swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. "You two," she said tightly. "You didn't have to do this."

"Sure we did," B.J. replied breezily.

She stood on her toes and gave each surgeon a peck on the cheek. "Thank you, they're lovely." She grinned at a thought that occurred to her. "It's a good thing I didn't sell my hair to buy you those shaving mugs."

"Good thing we didn't sell our beards to buy you those combs," said Hawkeye.

Nellie spotted Colonel Potter out of the corner of her eye and excused herself. Picking out an oblong package, she wound her way through the crowd of revelers until she reached the commanding officer. She tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and he turned. "Merry Christmas, Colonel," she said, handing him the package.

"Oh! Well, uh... I wasn't expecting, uhh..." He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. "This is mighty sweet of you, Lieutenant, but I'm afraid I didn't get you anything."

She smiled. "That's all right, sir," she assured him. "I don't mind. It's nothing extravagant, anyway. I just saw it in a catalogue and thought of you."

Potter removed the wrapping and opened the box. Inside was a canvas kit that unrolled to display a set of paintbrushes. "Well, I'll be," he said, shaking his head. "I've had my eye on this for a while myself. Thank you, dear. The next chance I get," he added, waving a finger at her, "I'm painting a portrait of you, young lady."

"I look forward to it, sir," she said with a chuckle.

"Oh, Nellie?" She turned around, startled by the sudden voice in her ear, to find Father Mulcahy holding a small wrapped gift in his hands. "I—"

"Hold that thought, Father, I'll be right back." She left the priest blinking in confusion as she retrieved her gift for him from the pile around the tree. "Sorry about that. What were you going to say?"

He chuckled. "I was only going to wish you a Merry Christmas," he said. "Shall we trade?"

"Sure." Nellie passed the package to him and took the gift he held out to her. The size, shape, and weight of it immediately gave it away, and she could hardly tear the paper off fast enough. As she suspected, it was a book. And not just any book. _A Christmas Carol_, by Charles Dickens_._ "God bless us, every one," she whispered, blinking rapidly to clear her vision.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." She hugged the book gratefully to her chest. "It's perfect, Father. Thank you."

He beamed. "And your gift is wonderful," he replied, holding up a pair of new boxing gloves. "I can't wait to try them out!"

"I think I'd better warn everyone not to miss Mass on Sunday," she joked.

The mountain of presents around the tree continued to shrink as the residents of the 4077th distributed gifts among each other. Nellie had bought necklaces for the other nurses, with the initial of the first name of each inside a heart. She wondered if they were trying to tell her something when she found that each nurse had given her more or less the same thing: makeup. For Major Houlihan, she had found a nice lacquered box for her own makeup, and in return, the major had surprised all of her nurses by giving each a pair of expensive silk stockings, saying that even in the Army, a woman couldn't wear khaki all the time. Smart lady.

_Only two more to go_, Nellie thought as she spied a figure in a fur coat standing by the refreshment table. (How anyone could call powdered egg nog refreshing, however, was beyond her.) This had been a tricky one. She had asked Klinger to do some of her Christmas shopping for her while he was in Tokyo, but the list she had given him hadn't included his own gift. Instead, she had hitched a ride with Sergeant Rizzo to Seoul in order to purchase it while Klinger was gone, leaving the corporal to guess which item he was buying was his Christmas present. When in reality, none of them had been.

The Lebanese was about to lift a cup of egg nog to his lips when Nellie plucked it neatly from his grasp. "Sweet merciful heavens, that was a close one," she said, her eyes widened dramatically. "Don't you know that stuff will kill you?"

Klinger's grin was dazzling. "Hey, there you are! I've been trying to give you your present, but every time I turn around, you've already disappeared. Give me a second. And don't go _anywhere._ Promise?"

She laughed. "Promise." She stood perfectly still as agreed, and Klinger returned with a surprisingly large white box in his hands. Her brow furrowed as he handed it to her, trying to figure out what it could be. It was big, but it wasn't very heavy. What could that mean? She realized she had no idea.

"Well, open it already!"

"Sorry," she said with a chuckle as she shifted it to one hand and removed the lid with the other. A small gasp escaped her. It was a gorgeous kimono of blue-gray silk trimmed with black, with white cranes embroidered across it, as if in flight. Underneath was a matching black obi. "Max," she breathed in amazement. "I've never owned a piece of clothing this beautiful in my life! It must have cost a fortune!"

Klinger waved a hand dismissively, although he couldn't successfully hold back a smile. "Nah, I could afford it. I did pretty well at our last poker game, and Zale's money has been burning a hole in my pocket ever since."

"So you spent it on me?" Klinger shrugged in a feeble attempt at nonchalance. After placing the box carefully on the table beside them, she reached out and clasped his hand warmly in both of hers. "You are quite possibly the sweetest man alive. Thank you so much, Max."

Beneath his natural tan, his cheeks were bright red. "Don't mention it, Nell." His blush faded as he looked down at the small, flat, square box she had placed in his empty hand. "What the heck?" he said, confused. "I don't remember buying anything shaped like that."

"That's because you didn't." She nudged him. "Go on, open it."

Frowning, he removed the wrapping paper and stared at the box for a moment before opening the lid. And then he stared some more. "Holy..." he said under his breath. Nellie grinned as he looked from the box to her, then to the box again. "Are... are you sure this is for _me?_"

"Of course, silly," she said as he lifted the silver pocketwatch gingerly out of the box along with its chain, holding it by its edges, as if afraid to get fingerprints on its mirrored surface. "I know how much you hate to go by military time. My father had one very similar to this, but my brother has it now. There's a space for a little photograph on the inside."

"I can think of only one face I'd want to see every time I open it," Klinger said fondly as he tucked the watch safely away in an inner pocket. Then he held out his arms, and she gladly stepped into his embrace. "Thank you, Nell," he murmured into her hair.

She smiled into his fur coat, enjoying the warmth. Over his shoulder, she spotted the last person on her list — the one she'd been more nervous about than anyone. She had to get to him before he disappeared again.

"You know, Nellie," Klinger was saying in a low voice, "there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

There was something in his tone that made her glance up at him, and when she did, she immediately wished that she hadn't. Some strong emotion was written on his features, and his dark eyes shone with an intensity that she recognized, even if she had never before seen it directed toward her. Suddenly her heart was pounding in her chest.

"Can it wait?" she found herself blurting. "Just for a few minutes? I still haven't given Major Winchester his present yet."

Klinger blinked. "Uh, sure, I guess," he said, releasing her from his embrace. He was clearly flustered.

She assured him she would be right back, and then she quickly retreated. _Oh God, oh God,_ she thought, sorting through the packages under the tree with trembling hands. _This is all I need._ The problem was not that Nellie wasn't fond of Klinger. In point of fact, she adored him. But she had never thought of him as more than a friend, because she never imagined he could ever see _her_ as more than a friend. Between going to nursing school and caring for her father, she had literally _no_ experience with romance. For all she knew, she would make an absolutely terrible girlfriend.

Besides, this was _Korea_. What would happen when the war was over, and everyone went back to their homes? How was _that_ supposed to work?

She shook her head to clear her thoughts. She would deal with this later.

At last she found the package she was looking for, and stooped to pick it up. For its size, it was fairly heavy, and it rattled when she lifted it. She scanned the mess tent until she saw the major's red tobogganing cap, then hurried over to him.

He gave her his usual wry half-smile as he spotted her. "Ah, Malone. Charming little party, this. Until now, I don't believe I've ever attended a Christmas soirée which boasted beer and reconstituted egg nog among its list of libations."

Nellie smiled at his elegantly-turned phrases. Though she knew she was probably alone in her opinion, she was of a mind that she could easily listen to him all day. On one particular occasion, she had informed him that he 'talked real purty-like', and he had looked as if he was suddenly developing an ulcer.

"The coffee's potable, at least," she said. She held out the package toward him, but he merely raised an eyebrow. "Take this, Major, before my arms dislocate from my shoulders."

Winchester did so, eyeing it with interest. "Is this for me?" She nodded, brushing her hair out of her face. "Well, goodness, Malone, you needn't have gone to such trouble. You've already been exceedingly generous with your book collection."

"Nonsense." She waved a hand casually to hide her nervousness. "Those were all loaners. This is for you to keep."

Curiously, the major set the package down on a nearby table and removed the simple wrapping paper with a maddening absence of haste. Nellie fought down the urge to bite her nails as she watched. Finally the remains of the wrapping paper were cleared away. Slowly, Winchester's hands moved across the smooth varnished wood. "Is this what I think it is?" he asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

"That depends," said Nellie, trying desperately not to grin. "What _do_ you think it is?"

He hesitated a moment before replying. "It looks remarkably like a Go board."

"It _is_ a Go board!" she said excitedly. "Technically it's a portable Go board. The real ones are enormous. I noticed some people playing it at the airport during my stop-over in Tokyo, and I asked them about it. After I met you, I started thinking about it again. It seemed like something you would like. So I asked Max to pick one up for me." _Max_, she thought with a pang. She cleared her throat. "Anyway, it has these hidden drawers in the side. That's where the stones are kept."

"Do you know, I always wanted to learn how to play Go when I was stationed at Tokyo General, but I never got the chance," Winchester said reflectively. He looked up from the board with a smile. "But now it seems I have! Thank you, Malone. This was very thoughtful of you."

Nellie returned his smile, relieved beyond measure. "Not at all, Major. I'm glad you like it."

Winchester picked up the board, the stone pieces inside rattling together as he did so. "Well," he said after a brief pause. "Merry Christmas."

She watched dumbstruck as he walked away, unable to say even a word in reply. He hadn't given her a thing.

It had been different with Colonel Potter; after all, she hadn't expected him to get a gift for every one of his subordinates, and certainly not for a lowly nurse who had only been under his command for a few months. But somehow Nellie had expected more from Winchester. True, he was not the most open or demonstrative of men. Still, despite his inherent stubborn superiority and her own occasional bouts of tactlessness, they had managed to grow close during the time they had known each other. He meant a lot to her.

She had thought she meant more to him. And though she would never let it show, she was crushed.

_First that awkward business with Max, and now this_, she thought bitterly. _Some Christmas._

Without warning, she was suddenly rendered nearly blind as someone snatched the glasses from her face. "Hey!" she shouted, sounding angrier than she had intended.

"If you want them, Ginger, you're going to have to come and get them."

Nellie gasped, nearly succeeding in choking herself. She knew that voice. She'd know it anywhere. But it _couldn't_ be that voice. Not here. It wasn't possible.

"Danny?" she said tremulously.

Her glasses were replaced carefully onto her nose, and a familiar freckled face swam into view, grinning from ear to ear. "Hey, Nell," he said easily.

"_Danny!_" She threw her arms around the young man and crushed him in a fierce hug. He laughed and squeezed back just as mercilessly. "What are you _doing_ here!"

"Oh, just thought I'd drop in," Danny replied with a shrug. Nellie swatted him lightly on the back of his curly head. "Actually, one of your compatriots got me a temporary transfer." He pulled away with considerable difficulty. "So, this is the 4077th, huh? Your letters don't do it justice. I would've gotten here days ago, but my ride broke down. Twice."

Nellie winced in sympathy. "I'm sorry. But I'm so glad to see you! This is great, now you'll get to meet everyone and—" She broke off abruptly, realizing what he had said. "Wait a minute, what? Who got you the transfer?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Danny told her frankly. "My understanding is that he or she wished to remain suspiciously anonymous."

She narrowed her eyes in thought. She had a pretty good idea who that person might be.

"I'll be right back," she said, and went off in search of Klinger.

He was sitting at one of the tables, staring off into space. He looked stricken. Forcing down her apprehension, she came and sat beside him. Normally, she would have laid a hand on his arm, but she couldn't bring herself to do so. "Max?"

He raised his eyes to hers, and again she felt a pang. "Yeah?" he said tightly.

She took a deep breath and forced a smile. "I can't thank you enough for getting Danny transferred here, even temporarily. You're such a doll, Max."

Klinger's smile was as strained as hers felt. "I wish I could say it was my idea," he replied in a tired voice. "But I'd be lying."

Nellie frowned. "It wasn't your idea?" she asked, bewildered. "Then whose was it?"

* * *

Sighing wearily to himself, Charles Winchester gazed longingly toward the door of the mess tent. Normally crowds never bothered him; when attending symphonies and operas, he had always enjoyed sitting on the main floor of the theater, directly in front of the orchestra pit, surrounded on all sides by fellow music lovers who, like him, had come solely for the purpose of worshiping sound. During those moments, he loved being in a crowd.

But this wasn't the same. Not even remotely. Instead, as he watched everyone enjoying themselves despite where they were and why they were there, Charles only felt more homesick than usual.

He rose to leave, but realized he was forgetting something. Despite the fact that he was not well-liked by the rest of the camp and took particular pride in it, he had, oddly enough, accumulated a sizeable collection of gifts. Most of them were trifling, of course; although he had heard somewhere that it was the thought that counted.

That Go board, however...

Charles had seen them in the shop windows during his time in Tokyo. They were by no means inexpensive. And from what he knew of Malone, she had never given him the impression of being especially affluent. She must have been saving for some considerable time.

The thought made his chest tighten inexplicably.

He shook himself. This ridiculous holiday was beginning to get to him.

As he turned to retrieve his gifts, he felt a hand on his arm. "Leaving so soon?" said a low, wavering voice.

Charles looked down to see Malone gazing up at him. Behind her glasses, her light green eyes were shining with unshed tears. "Max told me what you did," she continued unsteadily. She shook her head, overwhelmed. "You are just so... God, I can't even believe that you..." Without warning, she rushed forward and hugged him tightly. "Thank you so much, Major," she whispered into his jacket.

As soon as he had overcome his initial surprise, Charles felt himself smile as he returned her embrace. "You're most welcome, my dear," he said quietly, resting his chin on top of her head. "I wish you the very best of the season."

After a long moment, Malone reluctantly pulled away and gave him a watery smile. "Don't go yet," she pleaded gently. "I want you to meet Danny. And we'll be singing some songs in a little while. Father Mulcahy is warming up his fingers as we speak."

As hard as he tried, he found he couldn't refuse her. "Well," he said slowly, "I suppose I could be persuaded to stay."

Her smile widened. "Good."

Later, as he sat at the back of the mess tent and watched Mulcahy blissfully butcher a Christmas classic while Malone and her brother stood nearby and sang along with the rest of the camp, Charles thought about the Go board, which he had stowed safely away under his cot back in the Swamp. He thought about the absurd little red-haired nurse who had given it to him, and the sheer joy he had derived from her conversation and her companionship the past few months.

He thought about the ridiculous leap his heart had given when she had embraced him.

_The greatest Christmas present I've ever received._

* * *

A/N: Good lord, that was long. Did it feel long? It felt long to me. But I still loved writing it. Except the part where Nellie realized how Klinger felt about her. That part kind of gave me heartburn. Other than that, though, this chapter was loads of fun to write. I hope you enjoyed reading it! Merry Belated Christmas and a Happy New Year! Love and kisses!

-Octopus

P.S. Go is a Japanese board game that has been around for literally thousands of years. I think it originated in China. I have a Go board myself, and it's really quite fun, even if I rarely find people to play with me. For more information, look it up on Wikipedia.


	11. Bury Me in the Blue Chiffon

A/N: I seriously debated on whether or not to continue this story. It's been so long since my last chapter was posted. I was, frankly, ashamed. More specifically, I was ashamed of what my readers thought of me. But, even though I am a horrid slacker, I just can't get this story out of my head. Also, Klinger needs closure. Therefore, here's the next chapter.

Disclaimer: I think we all know I don't own _M*A*S*H_. The series ended before I was born, for crying out loud.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Eleven: Bury Me in the Blue Chiffon

Nellie Malone usually knew when she was being a jerk. In some ways, it was quite inconvenient. She couldn't even derive any satisfaction from mouthing off to someone — even someone who annoyed the dickens out of her — because she was always too preoccupied with trying to ignore that unpleasant gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach.

She was experiencing that sensation now.

In her defense, she had been very distracted at the Christmas party. She had just been so ecstatic over seeing her brother again, and so utterly shocked that Winchester — Major Charles Emerson Winchester, of _all people_ — had been the one to orchestrate the entire thing, that she simply hadn't noticed anything was amiss until she saw Klinger slip quietly out the door of the mess tent.

Abruptly, the whole uncomfortable business came rushing back to her. Klinger had been on the verge of pouring his heart out to her; anyone could have seen that. And she had simply brushed him aside. All because she was too afraid to deal with it.

Quickly making her excuses, Nellie pushed her way through the crowd of holiday revelers and followed Klinger out the door into the night.

The winter air hit her like a blast from an industrial freezer, causing her to gasp. As she paused to pull her coat tighter around herself, she spied the company clerk slowly making his way back toward his office across the poorly-lit compound. His head was sunk between his shoulders, his hands shoved in the pockets of his matted fur coat: the very picture of dejection. Even his hair looked forlorn.

And all because of her.

Fighting down her nervousness, Nellie jogged after him, her boots crunching on the frozen ground. "Max! Hey, Max, wait up!"

Klinger stopped and half-turned toward her, his distinctive profile outlined silver in the moonlight. As she caught up to him, he made an unconvincing attempt at a smile. "Oh, hey," he said casually — a little _too_ casually. "Listen, I hate to leave the party early, but I've got a lot of paperwork to catch up on. But I'm glad your brother finally got here safe and sound. I talked to him a little earlier. He seems like a real nice kid."

He was babbling, and from the way he shuffled his feet awkwardly, he seemed to be aware of it. "Anyway, it's pretty cold, so..." He cleared his throat. "You go on back to the party. Have a swell time."

He turned to go, but Nellie stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "The party can wait," she said in a low voice.

Klinger stiffened, but made no move to leave. Nellie took a deep breath and continued. "Max, I'm sorry. You tried to tell me something earlier, and I didn't listen. Or, rather, I _wouldn't_ listen. But..." She swallowed, hard. "I'm listening now."

He regarded her for a long moment, a conflicted expression on his face. Finally he shook his head, almost to himself. "Nah, forget about it," he said with a dismissive shrug. "It wasn't important, anyway."

Nellie frowned in disbelief. Not important? What did he take her for? She may have been inexperienced with these matters, but she wasn't completely clueless. She had seen the earnest look in his eyes, the flush on his olive cheeks. She'd been an idiot for not seeing it sooner, but still. She'd _seen_ it.

At any rate, she wasn't buying this. "Well, important or not, I should have paid more attention," she answered ruefully. "I had a lot on my mind. I realize that's a pathetic excuse, but—"

"Really, Nellie, it's all right," Klinger protested.

"No, it's _not_," she said, a little too loudly. His nonchalant act was beginning to grate on her. She sighed and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Look, I know it was important. And if it was important to you, then it's important to me." She smiled encouragingly, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. "And I'd like to hear it."

Klinger didn't return her smile. In fact, he didn't seem to be listening at all.

She cleared her throat. "Max?"

"Nellie..." He shook his head again, a weary gesture. "Are we done here? Like I said, I've got a lot of work to do."

Her hand slid from his shoulder and fell limply back to her side. "Yeah," she said tightly, her smile faltering. "Sorry. I didn't mean to keep you."

"Don't worry about it." He gave her a brief, perfunctory smile that didn't reach his eyes. "'Night, Nellie. Merry Christmas."

Her vision blurred as she watched him go. "Merry Christmas, Max," she whispered.

She swore under her breath as she tore off her glasses and wiped angrily at her suddenly damp cheeks.

_Way to go, scorpion woman._

* * *

It was rather distressing to Francis Mulcahy when one of the members of his flock was down in the dumps. Granted, it wasn't exactly possible for anyone to be _out_ of the dumps in this... well, _dump_. But he always tried his best to make sure that morale didn't sink too low. A happy MASH unit was an efficient MASH unit, after all.

At the moment, the unhappy sheep in question was none other than his favorite woolly-headed Irishwoman, Lieutenant Malone. Which, upon reflection, didn't make sense at all. The Christmas party had been especially enjoyable, if a little lacking in the _haute cuisine_ department. Her much-beloved younger brother was here on a temporary transfer from Pusan. And she and Major Winchester had been getting along famously, despite their past disagreements; in fact, Mulcahy rarely saw one of them without the other. By all rights, she should have been over the moon.

Instead, she was slumped despondently over her breakfast tray in the mess tent, her face pale and her eyes red from lack of sleep. Or perhaps for another reason.

With a stab of pity, Mulcahy set his own tray on the table and slid in beside her as unobtrusively as he knew how. "Good morning, Nellie," he said pleasantly.

She looked up at him in surprise, as if noticing him for the first time. "Oh, good morning, Father," she replied, attempting a half-hearted smile.

The chaplain watched her pick listlessly at her food for a few moments, while he sipped at his lukewarm coffee. At length, he cleared his throat. "I can't help wondering if there's something troubling you," he observed.

Her fork slowly came to rest beside the tray.

"Perhaps you'd like to talk about it?" he suggested gently.

Nellie groaned and removed her glasses, rubbing blearily at her eyes. "Father," she said hollowly, "tell me I'm an insensitive idiot, so I'll have someone who agrees with me."

Mulcahy drew back in horror and indignation. "I would never say such a thing!" he exclaimed.

She sighed, unfazed by his outburst. "Fair enough." She craned her neck to look up at Winchester, who had just gone through the mess line and was hovering near their table. "Major, tell me I'm an insensitive idiot."

He arched a perplexed eyebrow. "Very well," he replied in his usual dry manner. "Malone, you are an insensitive idiot."

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome." He sat down across from her, indifferent to Mulcahy's disapproving glare. "Why, pray tell, are you an insensitive idiot?"

Nellie looked up at him over her fisted hands. "Max," she said simply.

"My name is Charles."

"No!" She growled in frustration as she replaced her glasses on her nose. "I mean, Klinger. I've been such a jerk to him, and I didn't even realize I was doing it."

In an instant, everything became clear to Mulcahy. "Oh, I see," he murmured quietly. _So she finally figured it out,_ he thought to himself.

She eyed him suspiciously. "You mean, you knew, Father?"

The priest cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well..."

"Knew what?"

He looked up to see Nellie's brother Danny standing over them, regarding them curiously. On either side of him stood Hawkeye and B.J. _Just what we needed,_ thought Mulcahy wryly. _An audience._

As the trio sat down, Winchester's thin lips quirked in a brief, amused smile. "Our company clerk is, shall we say, a tad smitten with your sister here," he told Danny in a confiding tone.

"A _tad?_" Hawkeye chortled around a mouthful of powdered eggs. "Boy, there's an understatement if I ever heard one. Klinger's not just smitten. He's nuts about her. He worships her. He wants to marry her and have little redheaded genius babies with her."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Nellie finally burst out, erupting to her feet and inadvertently jostling Mulcahy in the process. "Does the whole damned _camp_ know?"

As she stormed out of the mess tent, Winchester fixed Hawkeye with his patented death glare. "Oh, _bravo_, Pierce," he said caustically.

The chief surgeon threw up his hands. "What'd I say?"

Danny, for his part, looked faintly nauseated. "With all due respect, Captain, I didn't need to hear that."

B.J., however, was shaking his head. "Poooor Red," he said. "She really had no idea?"

"Evidently not," said Mulcahy, feeling more than a little guilty about discussing the nurse's affairs in her absence.

Danny sighed. "I can't say I'm surprised," he said, his brow furrowing in a perfect imitation of his sister. "Nell's always been kind of oblivious about this sort of thing. She seems to think that her bookishness renders her immune to the interest of the opposite sex." He snorted. "For being such a brain, she can be a real dope."

"Spoken like a true little brother," said B.J. with a toothy grin. Danny's only reply was a wicked chuckle.

"One could argue," Winchester remarked, "that Malone's intellectual acumen is part of her appeal."

As they stared at him, completely taken aback, he simply shrugged. "Not me, specifically, you understand," he clarified. "I was speaking in general terms."

But Hawkeye was regarding him with a smug expression. "I knew it," he said, waggling a finger at the Bostonian. "I always knew you were carrying a torch for her, too."

Winchester rolled his eyes. "The adults are talking, Pierce. Run along and play in your sandbox like a good boy."

Mulcahy had had just about enough of this. "Gentlemen, please. You all know better than to gossip about Nellie and Klinger, especially when they're not here to defend themselves."

"Quite right, Father," agreed Winchester regally, rising to his feet and turning to Danny. "Private, your sister tells me you're as fond of classical music as she is. I have a small but rather excellent collection back in the Swamp. Perhaps you'd care to listen to a selection or two of your choice."

The young man unfolded his long, awkward frame from the table. "Thank you, Major, that's very kind of you." He gave a hearty salute to Mulcahy and the other officers. "See you later, sirs."

As the priest watched them leave the mess tent, Hawkeye shook his head. "Who the hell was that man, and what has he done with Charles?"

"I'd be very interested to know that, as well," admitted Mulcahy.

"No, seriously, I want answers," the surgeon continued, gesturing rather alarmingly with his fork. "You know, I was fine with Charles being sarcastic, self-important, and snooty. But this new-and-improved Charles is downright charming. Debonair. Even nice to the enlisted men. It's giving me the willies."

"I never thought I'd miss Frank," added B.J. "At least with him, there were no surprises. You could always count on him to be a miserable human being."

Mulcahy didn't know whether to laugh or weep. Winchester's demeanor of late was curious, he had to concede. But if anything, it was a marked improvement over his usual smug superiority.

Not that he wasn't smug and superior _now_. But there was more to it than that. He wondered if...

"You think it has something to do with Red?" asked B.J., seemingly reading his thoughts.

"She has made quite an impression on the major," Mulcahy agreed.

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. "For crying out loud, what _is_ it about that girl? One egg-headed little elf breezes into our camp, and suddenly the whole place is in an uproar about her. Has everyone gone batty, or just plain blind?"

The temperature in the immediate vicinity suddenly dropped about a dozen degrees.

B.J. shook his head, his distaste almost palpable. "Real nice, Hawk," he muttered, getting to his feet and walking out.

Hawkeye ran a hand through his thick, salt-and-pepper hair. "Boy, I am just batting zero this morning, aren't I?" he asked miserably.

Mulcahy smiled. "Perhaps you'd feel better if you knew the orphans at Sister Theresa's would love to have some new jump ropes."

The chief surgeon sighed, though he couldn't hold back a smile of his own. "Thanks, Father, you always know just what to say," he replied, pulling out his wallet.

* * *

As a rule, Charles Winchester was rather reluctant to mix in company with noncommissioned officers. Of course, with Klinger, it was unavoidable, due to the simple fact that the man was _everywhere_. But on the whole, it tended to give the wrong impression. Some semblance of order and discipline must be maintained, after all.

Nevertheless, he had to admit, he quite liked Private Malone.

Currently, the young man was engaged in perusing his record collection, an awestruck expression on his freckled face. His reaction, Charles was amused to note, was very similar to his sister's when she saw his records for the first time.

"Wow," he was saying, his green eyes lit up in excitement as he scanned the titles. "I mean, this is just... _Wow_. You've got Ravel, Tchaikovsky, Chopin... Where on earth did you find these, Major?"

Charles chuckled at his enthusiasm. "Most of them were gifts from my sister Honoria," he replied. "It certainly doesn't hurt to have a fellow music lover in the family with unlimited funds at her disposal."

"Boy, I should say so." Suddenly Danny gasped. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

"Yes?" Charles prompted.

He pointed to a rather old record, its sleeve faded and yellowed with time. "You have Sarasate's _Zigeunerweisen_. And not _just_ Sarasate's _Zigeunerweisen_. Sarasate _playing_ _Zigeunerweisen_. Dear God!" He placed his hand reverently over his heart. "All I have is Heifetz's version, which, of course, is amazing, but still..."

Charles smiled. "Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes, sir, if you please, sir," the boy said, clasping his hands together beseechingly, which made Charles laugh outright.

As the charming, yet somehow melancholic strains of the famous violinist's "Gypsy Airs" filled the dreary tent, Charles found himself transported to another, infinitely sweeter world. A world far away from the distant sound of enemy artillery and the agonized cries of dying men. He glanced over at Danny, and found his own feelings reflected on the private's face.

The piece ended, and they stood wordlessly for a long moment as they both remembered where they were.

"Well, that was a hell of a reality check," said Danny, his voice suddenly loud after the silence. "Sir."

Charles chuckled humorlessly. "Indeed."

The private shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "Well," he said briskly, "thank you very much, Major. That was a much-needed reminder that there's more to life than..." He gestured expansively, as if to encompass all of Korea. "_This._"

The surgeon regarded him with something akin to amazement, which was mingled with something very close to approval. "You are a highly unusual young man, Private Malone."

Danny smiled crookedly, reminding Charles irresistibly of another redhead to whom he was somewhat attached. "I had a highly unusual upbringing, sir," he replied.

"I don't doubt it," Charles said dryly.

Abruptly the boy's smile faded, and he turned to look out over the compound. "I wish she hadn't come here," he said in a low voice. He didn't have to say who he was talking about. "She doesn't _need_ to be here. If she weren't so damned protective of me, she'd be home right now, where it's safe, instead of..." He exhaled irritably, dragging his hands through his rust-red curls. "Sorry, sir. I just... I feel kind of responsible for her being here."

Charles didn't answer immediately. He found himself trying to imagine how the young man must feel. He tried to imagine how he himself would feel if his own sister decided to follow him to Korea. He would, more than likely, drag her back to Boston and lock her in her room for the rest of her life. Or, at least, for the rest of _his_.

At length he sighed, shoving his fists in the pockets of his coat. "I suppose it would be one thing if you had actually _volunteered_ to go on this... delightful little outing," he said ironically, not bothering to conceal his low opinion of the war. "But if I recall correctly, Private, you were drafted. You can hardly be blamed for that."

The boy shrugged, clearly unconvinced. "Besides," he added with a wry smile, "I've come to the realization that once your sister takes it upon herself to do something, there is nothing in heaven or on earth that can dissuade her."

Danny met his gaze with a smile of his own. "You're preaching to the choir, sir." Charles chuckled. "Well, if she _has_ to be here," he said, "I'm glad, at least, that she has a friend like you."

Abruptly his chuckle died in his throat. He honestly had no idea what to say to this.

"I can tell from what she says in her letters that she thinks very highly of you, sir," the boy went on, blissfully unaware of Charles's discomfiture. "Nell's never had very many close friends; God knows she's not an easy person to get to know. And I think she's always felt like she needed to look after me first." He rolled his eyes to indicate just what he thought of this. "But with you, Major, she seems to have found someone she can relate to. Someone who understands her, I guess. She hasn't said it in so many words, but... I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say you're the closest friend she has in this place."

If Charles was speechless before, it was nothing compared to this. He hadn't come to Korea to make friends. In truth, he hadn't intended to come to Korea at _all._ He had hated every minute of his existence from the first day he set foot in this living nightmare. He had been so completely, so utterly alone. But now...

Now that Malone was here, he actually had a reason to get up in the morning. He looked forward to their discussions. He enjoyed her company. He was genuinely fond of her.

Dimly, he recalled the day he made his desperate petition for something, _anything_, to ease the passing of his time in this miserable place. It hadn't occurred to him that that something might actually be a some_one_.

Dear Lord. Whatever next?

He cleared his throat — not without some difficulty — and managed to sound reasonably unmoved. "I would be honored, of course, if that were the case." He looked at the young man carefully before he spoke again. "Why are you telling me this, Daniel?"

The private shook his head. "I don't know. Nell's great, but... she tends to worry about everyone. So much that she kind of forgets to take care of herself. Just give her a book and she's fine." Charles smiled faintly. Danny gnawed on his lower lip for a moment. "Would you... do me a favor, sir?"

Charles's smile vanished. "Err..." he said eloquently.

"Would you look out for her, sir? I mean, you know," he explained hastily, "make sure she doesn't work too hard, or forget about important things, like food and sleep and whatnot. Just..." He shrugged helplessly. "Look out for her?"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Charles was aware that if any other enlisted man had made such a request of him, he would likely have disregarded it completely. He would die before he would admit it to anyone, but the truth was, he was oddly impressed by this young man and his boldness.

He gave the lad a reassuring smile. "I shall certainly do my best."

And what was more, he actually meant it.

* * *

It wasn't that Klinger was avoiding Nellie, necessarily. He just didn't feel like being around her.

There were several reasons why. The first was that he really did have a lot of work to catch up on. One weekend in Tokyo may not seem like a long time to be away, but the paperwork had a way of piling up faster than he could stay on top of it. And he didn't have Radar's knack for organization. Sometimes he wondered why the kid picked him to be his replacement. He suspected it wasn't so much for his sorting skills as for his talent for sneaking around red tape.

The second reason was that Nellie was working in Post-Op, anyway, and he had no reason to go there. Besides, even if she hadn't been on duty, she'd still have her little brother to keep her company. Klinger still couldn't believe it had been Winchester's idea to bring the private here on a temporary transfer. He never really could figure Winchester out. Most of the time the man was a Grade-A pain in the ass, but every once in a while, and completely out of the blue, he pulled something like this. Something that made Klinger suspect that there was actually a caring person beneath that unbearable ego.

The third, and if he was really being honest with himself, the biggest reason he didn't want to see Nellie was that she had ripped his heart out and stomped on it.

He knew she hadn't meant to. But she had. She'd known exactly what he had been going to tell her at the Christmas party, and she had dashed off like a startled hare. That right there should have been enough to confirm what he'd suspected all along: that he'd never had a chance with her. But then she'd caught up to him, and tried to coax a confession out of him. She may not have realized it, but that only made matters worse. He could tell by looking in her eyes that she was terrified of what he might say. And that hurt more than anything else.

He leaned back in his chair and sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. _This is all B.J.'s fault,_ he thought sourly. _"Unless you tell her, you'll never know." What a crock._

The door to his office swung open, sending in a gust of cold air, along with a familiar strident female voice.

"Klinger, when is the next mail shipment getting in? I'm expecting a package, and— good God, you look terrible."

"Gee, thanks, Major, you look like a million bucks, too," he answered flatly.

Margaret Houlihan strode over without preamble and examined him in her usual no-nonsense manner, taking his pulse at the wrist and checking his forehead and his eyes for signs of fever. He resisted the urge to twist away from her touch.

Finally she stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, you're not sick, Corporal," she told him matter-of-factly. _I could've told you that,_ he thought irritably. "The only explanation I can think of is fatigue. Have you been getting enough rest?"

Klinger didn't have the energy or the inclination to have this discussion. "Yes, ma'am," he replied in a bored monotone.

The head nurse stared at him critically for what seemed to him an eternity, her lips pursed. At length she sighed and dropped her arms. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Nurse Malone, would it?" she asked quietly.

He would probably never know why this had such an effect on him. But whether it was what Houlihan said, or the unexpectedly kind way she said it, for some reason, it proved to be the straw that broke the camel's back.

"Hey, come on now," Houlihan said gently, patting his hand.

"Why'd I have to fall for her?" he said brokenly, shaking his head at his own weakness. "She's so far out of my league, it's a joke."

The blonde nurse gave him a sad smile. "You're in the Army, Klinger. It's an occupational hazard."

As Klinger looked up at her, standing over his desk, he realized that she probably knew better than anyone what he was going through. Because she knew what it was like to fall for the wrong person.

"What do I do?" he found himself asking.

She squeezed his hand. "You talk to her."

He slumped back in his chair. "That's not what I wanted to hear," he muttered.

"Oh, shut up and do as you're told, you big wuss," she said, not unkindly.

It figured that the one to tell him to be a man would turn out to be a woman. Klinger tried to smother a smile, but didn't succeed. "Yes, ma'am."

Houlihan stepped away, all business again. "So I take it that package hasn't come yet?" she asked off-hand.

"I'll let you know when it has. In fact, I'll make a special delivery."

"Very good, Corporal. As you were."

He grinned and shook his head as she breezed out of his office. There was another officer he would never be able to figure out.

She was right, though; he couldn't avoid Nellie forever. For that matter, he didn't want to. They had to work this thing out, and soon.

As if on cue, the door swung inward again, and the red-haired object of his affections stepped hesitantly inside.

_Damn it,_ Klinger thought, tensing in his chair. _I didn't mean _this _soon._

It took a long time for Nellie to meet his eyes. When she did, he could tell she had been crying. "Hey, Max," she said tightly.

He swallowed and rose to his feet. "Hey." After an awkward pause, he asked, "Where's Danny?"

"With Major Winchester."

Klinger nodded. He wasn't surprised; the thoracic surgeon had taken a shine to the young private.

Nellie cleared her throat. "We need to talk."

"I know we do. Come here, sit down." He took her elbow and led her over to his sagging bunk in the corner of his office, silently relieved that he'd bothered to make it that morning. As he took a seat beside her, he swore he could almost feel her nervousness radiating off her in waves. He hated that he made her feel that way.

He watched as she sighed and shook her head, seemingly arriving at some decision. "I'm sorry for the way I reacted at the party," she said in a low voice.

Now it was his turn to shake his head. "I'm sorry for... for the way I reacted to your reaction," he replied.

"Well... I'm sorry for the way I _made_ you react to my reaction."

Klinger blinked. "Say what?"

She looked up at him with a sheepish smile. "I... don't know."

He couldn't help letting out a chuckle at this, and when she joined him in his laughter, he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Taking a chance, he reached out and took her hand in his. "Nell," he said softly, "all joking aside for once... I'm crazy about you. You know that."

Nellie nodded minutely, looking down at their interlaced fingers. "I know," she murmured.

"And listen, it's okay if you don't feel the same way. I'll understand." _I'll probably wail and rip my garments apart, but I'll understand._

He shivered as he felt her thumb brush over his knuckles. "It's... It's not that I don't care for you, Max. I do. Very much."

Klinger nodded dismally, already knowing what was coming next. "But...?"

"But I... I'm just not sure how to deal with something like this." Her face had flushed to match her hair. "I mean, I suspected you might feel something a little stronger than friendship toward me," she went on hastily, her eyes fixed on her lap. "But I guess I just found it too hard to believe. That is, I haven't... I've never..." She hesitated a moment, then sighed. "I've never had any admirers before," she said at last, embarrassed.

Klinger frowned. "How can that be?" he asked in a surprised tone.

She gave a humorless laugh. "Well, I'm not exactly Rita Hayworth, am I?" she said wryly.

Her lack of self-esteem, as always, tugged at his heart painfully. "Hey, come on, Nell," he said quietly, nudging her with his shoulder. "Don't sell yourself short. I've always thought you were a knock-out. And just so you know, I've got excellent taste."

Nellie smiled faintly, but still wouldn't look him in the eye. "You're sweet, Max," she said, a little sadly. "But I'm afraid you may have picked the wrong girl. I wouldn't know the first thing about being in a relationship."

For a few seconds, he could only stare at her incredulously. Finally shook his head. "Do you honestly think I care about that?" As she gazed up at him through her eyelashes, he felt his breath hitch. "All that matters to me," he said earnestly, "is that you're the most wonderful girl I've ever met."

"Max..."

Klinger gave her hand a light squeeze. "Hold on, Nellie, just let me get this out, or I may explode," he said, only half-kidding. She sighed, but fell silent. "Look, I... I know I'm not the brightest guy in the world, or the richest, or even the best-looking. My uncle Abdul says I should have to pay separate income taxes just for my nose."

Nellie laughed despite herself. "But," he continued seriously, "I can promise you this. I'll always be here for you. I'll always treat you right. And I'll _always_ put you first."

Her head sank to his shoulder. For a while, neither of them spoke.

"What do you say, Nellie?" he murmured into her hair. "Can you give me a chance?"

There was another pause. "May I have some time to think it over?" she asked in a small voice.

He smiled fondly. "Take as long as you need, _habibti_," he replied.

Nellie looked up at him, her eyebrows knitted in confusion. "What does that mean?"

He shook his head with another smile. "I'll tell you some other time." He pulled her to her feet. "Now go find your brother and rescue him from Major Winchester. He's only got a few more days left here. You'd better make them count."

She nodded absently. "You're right." She turned to leave, but changed her mind and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. "You're the best, Max," she whispered.

"Yeah, I know, get outta here," he said jokingly.

With one last warm glance, she turned and headed back outside. Klinger stood staring at the door long after she had gone, a dreamy smile on his face.

Suddenly the door leading to Colonel Potter's office opened behind him, and the white-haired man peeked his head in, his eyebrows raised. "Is it safe to come out yet?" he asked.

"Colonel!" Klinger jumped back, mortified. "Oh, God! I didn't know you were in there, sir!"

"Tell me about it," Potter grumbled, pushing past him on his way out of the office. "The next time you decide to sweet-talk one of the nurses, do me a favor and warn me first. I've had to use the little boys' latrine for half an hour."

* * *

A/N: Good God, I missed this. I repent in sackcloth and ashes. I should never have stopped writing this. It's way too much fun.

Review if you like. But I won't blame you if you don't.

-Octopus


	12. My Ranting Gets Raves

A/N: Thought it would take me another year to post the next chapter, didn't you? Hahaha! Well, I don't blame you. I am a massive slacker. However, I've gotten a burst of inspiration — as well as several seasons of _M*A*S*H_ on DVD — so this chapter didn't give me much trouble. In fact, it was kind of a blast. Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: At this point, I'm not quite sure who owns _M*A*S*H_; I guess it's still Twentieth Century Fox. All I know is, it doesn't belong to me.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twelve: My Ranting Gets Raves

When Nellie had hinted that her fellow MASH-mates had to be experienced first-hand in order to be believed, Danny had just assumed she was exaggerating. After a few days at the 4077th, he had to concede that she was pretty much spot-on.

Huddled together in the surgeons' tent, which was appropriately nick-named "The Swamp", a decidedly low-stakes poker game was currently underway. The little deal table in the center of the tent was piled with all manner of random detritus: a pair of shoelaces, a leaky fountain pen, a moth-eaten jeep cap. Outside, the winter wind was sweeping through the compound, causing the flimsy canvas structure to flap wildly, like an umbrella in a hurricane.

Crammed between his sister and the company chaplain, Father Mulcahy, Danny inspected his cards with increasing pessimism. _Even if I win, I won't be any richer,_ he thought with a wry smile.

On the other side of the deal table, Captain Pierce tossed a shapeless rubber object into the pot. "One earpiece from a stethoscope, slightly chewed," he announced. At Danny's bewildered expression, he explained, "The camp dog got a hold of it. He's very insistent when he thinks he's sick."

"I'll see your chewed earpiece," said Captain Hunnicutt, "and I'll raise you one book of matches from the Sakura nightclub in Tokyo."

Nellie elbowed Danny in the ribs. "Sit up straight, son. You're among exalted company now."

Over on his cot in the corner, his aristocratic nose buried in a book — one of Nellie's, unless Danny was mistaken — Major Winchester chuckled dryly under his breath. Danny found it very interesting to note that although the major had elected not to participate in the poker game, he hadn't left the Swamp.

On the other side of Nellie, Corporal Klinger consulted his cards before putting in his bet. "As Radar would say, I got four sticks of gum that ain't doin' nothin'."

Nellie sighed theatrically and threw her cards down. "Too rich for my blood."

Klinger laughed and gave her an affectionate chuck under the chin. She blushed, but returned his smile bashfully. Danny found that very interesting, as well. He'd definitely have to have a little chat with his sister, and soon.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Well, I'm still in," he said, pushing a cardboard box onto the crowded table. "Half a box of lemon cupcakes, lovingly prepared by my bunkmate's wife. Or sister. I don't recall which. I swiped it when he wasn't looking."

"Danny!" Nellie smacked him hard on the arm.

"Hey, what's the big deal? It's not like he needs the calories. That guy's as massive as the Spruce Goose, and roughly as aerodynamic."

"Sounds like the perfect person to pinch pastries from," Hunnicutt remarked.

Mulcahy made a dissatisfied noise. "I'm afraid Lady Luck is not on my side tonight," he said, setting his cards down. "Although I have a sneaking suspicion that the dealer may have tampered with the deck."

"Father, please," said Klinger with dignity. "I may have my faults, but swindling a holy man is low, even for me. Besides," he added confidentially, "my uncle Amir once got two to five years for doing just that."

Pierce shook his head in amazement. "For God's sake, Klinger, how many uncles can one man have?"

There was another ironic chuckle from Winchester. "I take it you're unfamiliar with the old adage, 'It takes a village to raise an idiot.'"

Nellie made a face at him, which he blithely ignored.

"Now, now, children, don't make me separate you," chided Pierce, wagging a finger at them. He fanned out his cards on the table. "Three kings. Hand over all your worthless junk, and nobody gets hurt."

"Damn," Hunnicutt grumbled. "I mean, aww shucks," he amended quickly, catching Mulcahy's pointed look. "Only a paltry two pair for me."

Danny cleared his throat nonchalantly. "I believe, Captain Pierce, that an ace-high straight beats your three of a kind."

The chief surgeon snapped his fingers. "So _that's_ where that other king went."

Klinger's grin was blinding as he set down his cards. "Full house," he said simply.

His words were met with a chorus of groans. "_Now_ tell me he didn't rig the deck," said Mulcahy.

"Such petty accusations are beneath you, Padre," was Klinger's lofty reply as he collected his meager winnings. With a great show of ceremony, he held out the box of cupcakes to Nellie. "Here you are, _habibti_. Sweets for the sweet."

The girl gave a low laugh. "Thank you, Max," she replied, taking it from him.

He winked at her. "Don't spend them all in one place."

Danny rolled his eyes. "I may throw up," he said matter-of-factly.

"Curiously enough, you stole the very words from my mouth," remarked Winchester.

With a sigh of good-natured exasperation, Nellie rose from her seat at the edge of Pierce's cot. "Well, gentlemen, as much as I've enjoyed losing to you all, I think I'd better be turning in," she said, buttoning her oversized military-issue jacket and tucking the box under her arm. "I've got the early shift in Post-Op tomorrow morning."

"As do I," said the major, closing the book he'd been reading and placing it on the desk beside his own cot. "Sleep well, Malone. Or at least, as well as you can in this asylum."

"And you, Major."

"I'll walk you back to your tent, Nellie," volunteered Klinger, shooting to his feet.

Danny stopped the corporal with a hand on his arm. "Uhh, mind if I do the honors? Big Sis and I have some family matters to discuss."

The Lebanese paused for a beat, but quickly recovered. "Yeah, of course," he said genially. "She's all yours, kid."

"For now," Pierce muttered slyly under his breath.

"Shut up, Captain," Klinger replied in the same cheerful tone.

After bidding everyone goodnight, the red-haired siblings left the Swamp and headed off in the direction of the nurses' tents. As they walked, Danny could feel his sister's keen gaze trained on him. "All right," she said, her words rising into the night air as little puffs of steam, "what are all these so-called 'family matters' we need to discuss?"

He sucked in a deep breath, bracing himself. "Merely that I'm your family, and as such, I think I'm entitled to know what's going on."

Nellie blinked, briefly thrown. "Beg pardon?"

Danny leaned in close to her before clarifying. "What's the deal between you and the company clerk?" he demanded in a low voice. "Did I miss something, or are you two an item now? I mean, I knew he had some kind of crush on you, but you never indicated that the feeling was even remotely mutual."

Even in the dark, he could tell that his sister's freckled cheeks were flushed. It could have possibly been from the cold, but he knew better. "It wasn't, to be perfectly honest," she said sheepishly, staring at the ground. "At least, it wasn't until recently."

There was an uncharacteristic hesitation in her manner. "So?" Danny encouraged. "What changed?"

"I... He..." She gave a sort of uncomfortable roll of her shoulders. "If you must know, he told me after the Christmas party that he... had feelings for me. And he implied that he'd like to pursue a relationship with me." Danny had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing; she was so dreadfully _formal_. "He was very respectful about it; he didn't pressure me or anything. But I've given it some thought. And," she added primly, "I've decided to give him a chance."

For a moment, Danny was at a loss for words — a rare occurrence for him. He coughed awkwardly into his hand. "How much thought did you actually give it?" Nellie glared at him. "No offense, Nell. Klinger seems like a nice guy. I'm just a little confused. Isn't he the one who used to wear dresses and threatened to set himself on fire?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, _that_. He was only pretending to be crazy to get out of the Army. He gave all that up when he became the company clerk. Mostly."

"Mostly?" he repeated skeptically.

"He still wears his fur coat when it's cold out." She expelled an irritated breath. "Look, do we really have to discuss this now? It's freezing, and I have to get up early tomorrow."

"Well, if not, then when?" he pressed. "I'm headed back to Pusan in two days."

"Don't remind me," she muttered.

He put a hand on her shoulder, forcing her to halt in her tracks. "I'm just... surprised, that's all," he said quietly. "He doesn't really seem like your type."

"My type?" She frowned and crossed her arms over her chest, and he thought, _Uh-oh_. "And just how, exactly, do you know my type, Danny? How can you be sure I even _have_ a type? In case you haven't noticed, I haven't had a whole lot of free time to devote to dating."

"That's not the point," he said impatiently. "Whether you believe me or not, I _know_ you, Nell. You're smart. In fact, you're the smartest girl I know. You should be with someone who appreciates that, someone you can talk to about the things you're really passionate about. Someone who _understands_ you." He shook his head. "I'm just not convinced that Max Klinger is that someone."

"Who's the elder sibling here, anyway?" she asked angrily. "For God's sake, Danny, you're talking like I've agreed to marry him. I hardly think things have gotten _that_ serious." She pushed her hair out of her face, a gesture he'd seen countless times, whenever she was frustrated. "I know very well that Max and I have obvious differences in tastes and in temperament. But he's a good man. From the first day I came here, he's been nothing but kind to me. At the very least, he deserves to be given a chance."

Danny was silent. Nellie sighed and unfolded her arms, looking drained. "I know you're concerned," she said softly. "But trust me. I can handle myself."

He gave her a long, scrutinizing look. At last he nodded. "Okay," he said simply.

She squeezed his arm, and they resumed their walk back to her tent.

_I just hope that gratitude is a good enough foundation for a relationship._

* * *

Charles wasn't entirely sure why he let Malone convince him to come tonight. Perhaps it was because he felt some modicum of sympathy for her; after all, her brother had left that morning, and she was obviously not happy to see him go. Or perhaps it was simply an excuse to escape the unrelieved, olive-drab monotony of his little hovel away from home. In any event, here he was. At Rosie's bar. On New Year's Eve.

And he was regretting it already.

It was still relatively early in the proceedings, but an impressive number of people had already shown up, and were currently in varying stages of intoxication. The old Wurlitzer jukebox against the wall was playing some ragtime nonsense called "Ain't Misbehavin'", which, aside from being a travesty of the English language in and of itself, was especially ironic under the circumstances. Unsurprisingly, Pierce was among those dancing along, partnered with one of the many nurses under his evil spell. From an anthropological perspective, Charles honestly didn't know how the man did it.

Nor did he care. In fact, he debated whether or not anyone would notice if he turned and walked right back out. Unfortunately, someone _did_ notice.

"Major!" A hand waved at him on the other end of the crowded bar, and Lieutenant Malone made her way through the hordes of revelers to meet him. "There you are! I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

Charles couldn't help smirking. "Well, I hadn't exactly planned on attending this Bacchanalian blowout. However, that was before some foolish girl ambushed me and insisted I come along and keep her company." He clucked his tongue in disapproval. "Of all the unmitigated nerve."

"I can't even imagine," she said with a laugh. "To be honest," she added in a lower tone, "I never used to frequent bars myself, until I came to the 4077th. But I suppose this _is_ a somewhat special occasion." Her lips quirked in a half-hearted imitation of her trademark crooked smile. "I never thought I'd be ringing in the new year in Korea."

"That makes two of us," he replied quietly. Malone patted his arm in commiseration. "Well," he said briskly, gesturing toward the tables, "shall we retire to the drawing room?"

"Oh, yes, of course! Max is saving a table for us. Right this way, sir."

_Max._ Ah, yes, of course. How silly of him to assume that the girl would be alone. Surely he should have realized that she would be accompanied by her slow-witted suitor. He'd long been aware of Klinger's infatuation with Malone, but he had had far too much respect for her judgment to imagine that she would ever reciprocate the corporal's feelings. Evidently he'd been mistaken.

_And she seemed like such a bright young woman,_ he thought, shaking his head.

He tailed along behind the nurse as she wove her way through the crowd and stopped at a corner table, where Klinger gallantly stood, resplendent in his matted fur coat, and pulled out her chair for her. Resisting the impulse to roll his eyes, Charles reluctantly claimed a chair opposite the couple and seated himself.

"Good evening, Major Winchester," the clerk said cheerfully, draping his arm around Malone's shoulder. "May I be the very first to wish you an early _Bonne Année!_"

Both Charles and Malone looked at him in surprise. "Max, I didn't know you spoke French," Malone exclaimed.

Klinger shrugged carelessly. "My mother's family lived in Lebanon when it was still under the French Mandate. Back then, pretty much everybody there spoke French. So, my ma taught my sister and me." He sighed. "Now if only we could teach her English."

"_C'est impressionnant_," said Malone with an appreciative smile.

He waved his hand dismissively. "_C'est rien_," he replied, beaming.

"_Mon Dieu_," Charles muttered under his breath.

"Oh, jeez, where are my manners?" Klinger pushed back his chair and sprang to his feet. "What can I get you two to drink? My treat."

"A scotch on the rocks for me, please," said the nurse.

He grinned. "You got it, dollface. And you, Major?"

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. It was going to be a long night; he'd better fortify himself for the torture to come. "I'll take a cognac, provided it wasn't distilled in a washbucket."

"A cognac and a scotch on the rocks. Be right back."

"Thanks, Max," Malone called as the corporal moved off toward the bar.

"Yes, thank you, Max," echoed Charles in an ironic drawl.

He noticed Malone looking at him with her eyebrows knitted together, a general indication that she was less than pleased with him. He cleared his throat and attempted to make conversation. "Well," he said, "I imagine your brother must be arriving in Pusan as we speak, don't you?"

The pinched expression left her face, much to his relief. "Most likely," she replied, propping her arms on the table. "Assuming his transportation didn't break down on the way. Our jeeps are about as reliable as our mail service." She suddenly smiled. "I want to thank you for being so hospitable to him, sir. I really appreciate it."

"Not at all. It was my pleasure." He paused. "And how are you faring in his absence?" he asked quietly.

She lowered her gaze to the table. "Well enough, I guess. I miss him already, but that's to be expected. I'm just glad he's stationed in Pusan. It's as far away from the front lines as one can get without falling into the ocean." She sighed, tracing the grain of the wood with her finger. "I just wish he could have gotten to stay a little longer."

He didn't know why he said it. It just came out before he could stop himself. "At least you've found solace in the arms of the company clerk."

For a few excruciatingly long seconds, Malone simply stared at him. When she spoke, her voice betrayed, not anger, but hurt. "Was that really called for, Major?" she asked quietly.

Charles shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Oh, come now," he said lightly. "Surely you can't begrudge me a little good-natured jesting."

She sat back and crossed her arms deliberately. "That all depends on how 'good-natured' it actually is," she returned evenly.

He snorted. "You may lower your hackles, Malone. No one is more thrilled by your new-found bliss than I. Or more entertained, for that matter," he added with a dry chuckle.

Malone was less amused. "That's quite enough commentary from the peanut gallery, if you don't mind," she said archly.

"Well, for heaven's sake, what do you expect?" he finally asked incredulously. "How did you think everyone would react to learning that out of all the men in this God-forsaken camp, you picked the one who can barely spell his own name? Honestly, Malone, I realize you're grateful to him in some way for his attentions, but I expected so much better from you."

"And I expected _you_ to be more civil, sir," she answered in a low voice, clearly hurt. "Max may not have your formal education, but he's a lot smarter than you give him credit for. In fact," she continued, ignoring his skeptical smirk, "he just asked to borrow my copy of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. For the _second_ time. He says he can't get enough of it."

Charles was tickled to death by this. "How oddly fitting," he remarked drolly, "considering that the leading lady of that particular play was _also_ 'enamour'd of an ass'."

The girl opened her mouth, no doubt with the intent of rebuking him soundly. But at that moment, Klinger returned with the drinks. "One cognac for the major," he said, "and one scotch on the rocks for the lady."

Malone graced him with a beatific smile as she took her drink from him. "Thank you, Max," she said sweetly, "but Major Winchester has made it very clear that he'd rather drink alone."

She pushed her chair back and rose to her feet, giving him one last icy glare before leaving him alone at the table, dragging a bewildered Klinger along with her.

Charles sighed and ran a hand through his sparse hair. _Ah, well,_ he thought grimly, _we were about due for another disagreement, anyway._

Sipping slowly at his cognac, he wondered what it was about the idea of Malone and Klinger as a couple that irked him so. He hadn't been put out in the least when the clerk had followed her around like a love-starved puppy. Then again, she had never suspected the true nature of his attentions. But now she knew. And what was more, she welcomed them. Hadn't the girl any standards whatsoever?

He shook his head to himself. There was little point in letting it get to him. With any luck, she would come to her senses in time. Meanwhile, he would no doubt have to apologize for teasing her. Eventually.

Finishing his cognac, Charles abandoned the empty table and meandered over to the jukebox, browsing the scanty selection of outdated songs. Across the sea of bar patrons, he could see Malone chatting with Margaret and one of the other nurses. Klinger, of course, was at her side, his hand tracing lazy circles on her lower back as he listened to their conversation.

For some reason, Charles was bothered by this; by all rights, far more than he should have been. It just seemed so... presumptuous.

He noticed Kealani Kellye watching him, a knowing smirk on her face. "As you were, Lieutenant," he snapped in annoyance.

She only laughed and walked away, leaving Charles to long for the days when everyone used to be terrified of him. _I've gone soft,_ he thought in disgust.

At some point in the evening, he was dragged into a discussion with Hunnicutt and Colonel Potter about the most expedient way to treat septicemia. He was about to defer to the colonel's superior knowledge and experience, regardless of whether or not he agreed with either, when he felt a hard tap on his shoulder.

He turned to see Malone staring up at him crossly, her little hands fisted on her hips. It didn't take an especially observant person to deduce that she'd imbibed more than her share of spirituous beverages. Behind her skewed spectacles, her green eyes were somewhat unfocused.

"Pardon me, Major Winjester," she said very formally, only slightly mangling the syllables in his surname. "But I've got something to say to you."

Charles's eyebrows climbed toward his receded hairline. "Oh?" he said in amusement. "And what's that?"

"Now—" She attempted to fold her arms over her chest, which caused her to lose her balance slightly. Latching onto his sleeve to steady herself, she tried again. "Now, don't take this the wrong way, Major," she said primly, "because for reasons only God himself must know, I'm actually quite fond of you..." She took a deep breath. "But _you_, sir, are a big, fat _jerk_."

It took all the willpower at Charles's disposal not to burst out laughing. "Am I indeed?" he asked, as evenly as he could.

Malone nodded matter-of-factly. "Yes, you are. A big, fat one. But don't worry, I'm not holding it against you."

"That's... That's very generous of you," he managed to reply.

Looking sufficiently mortified, Klinger appeared at her side and attempted to take her by the elbow. "Don't pay any attention to her, Major," he said apologetically. "I should have realized that three scotches was her limit."

The girl batted him away. "Wait, I'm not finished. In fact," she said as an afterthought, "I'm glad you're here, Max. You need to hear this, too."

"Uhhh..." Klinger replied uncertainly. By now she had attracted the attention of the other patrons, including Pierce, who wandered over to observe the spectacle, grinning from ear to ear.

"I have to say, _Major_," Malone continued heedlessly, "that I am sick to death of everyone criticizing everything I do. That goes for Danny, and that goes _especially_ for you." She emphasized her point with a tap on his chest. "I'm twenty-eight — wait, no — yes, twenty-eight years old, and I think I have a right to decide what to do with my life. And if I want to date Max Klinger, then I'm _going_ to date Max Klinger, and that's nobody's business but my own."

Klinger's ears were red beneath his natural tan. "Nellie," he said pleadingly.

She ignored him. "For your information," she said, sticking her nose regally in the air, "I didn't decide to date Max out of gratitude. I decided to date Max because he's a gentleman. In _fact_," she added pointedly, "Max is ten _thousand_ times more — _hic!_ — of a gentleman than you'll ever be!"

Charles wasn't able to successfully smother a smile. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really!" she fired back. "He doesn't make disp... disparaging comments about my judgment. He doesn't treat me like a child. _And_ he doesn't return my books with the pages all dog-eared!"

"What a prince," Charles said dryly.

Malone gave an indignant sniff. "He _is_ a prince," she said with dignity. She turned to Klinger, who looked as though he were trying his best to melt through the floor. "Max, you're a prince. You're..." She patted his shoulder affectionately. "Yes, you're a prince."

The Lebanese was clearly doing all he could to keep a straight face. "Okay, Nellie," he replied solemnly.

She cast another glare at Charles. "All I can say to you, Major, is that if you don't like it, then..." She struggled momentarily. "Then you can just... go... suck an egg!"

With that, she grabbed Klinger by the collar of his fur coat and kissed him hard on the mouth. Too stunned to react, the clerk simply stood rooted to the floor and flailed his arms about ineffectively. At last Malone pulled away, nodding in satisfaction. "Happy New Year, Max," she told him very courteously.

And then she toppled over into Hunnicutt's arms and promptly passed out.

"I like her," said Pierce musingly.

Colonel Potter took out his pocketwatch and looked at it. Then he shook his head in sympathy. "Poor kid. She didn't even make it to midnight."

* * *

"Your coat smells nice," said Nellie as Klinger gently guided her across the compound toward her tent, half-dragging her small, limp form. "It smells a lot like my grandmother. Well," she amended reflectively, "when she was alive, anyway. I'm not sure I want to know what she smells like _now_."

Klinger couldn't help laughing at this. "Thanks, I think."

She halted him with a hand on his arm and sighed. "Did I make a scene?" she asked guiltily. "I made a scene, didn't I?"

He hesitated for a moment in the cold night air. "Well... yeah," he replied at last, smiling. "You did." She groaned and burrowed her head into his shoulder. "Hey, don't worry about it," he told her, rubbing her back soothingly. "As far as scenes go, I wouldn't have missed this one for the world."

She looked up at him and returned his smile, albeit a little hazily. "You're sweet, Max."

"I know, I know." He tweaked her on the nose. "I'm a prince."

As they continued walking, a light snow began to fall, coating the compound with a fine dusting of white, as if a giant sieve had sprinkled the landscape with powdered sugar. It was a beautiful night.

The nurses' tent was empty, for which Klinger was thankful; with the other nurses gone, he wouldn't be given a hard time about Nellie's "scene" at Rosie's. At least, not until the following morning.

He steered her inside and eased her gently onto her cot, removing her glasses and placing them on a nearby table, which was piled with an assortment of books. Then he unlaced her boots and pulled them off one by one. "There you go, kiddo. Sweet dreams."

Nellie didn't seem to hear him. "You know," she said in an odd tone, "Danny says you're all wrong for me."

Klinger tried not to show how hurt he was by this remark. "He's probably right about that."

"Don't say that." She looked up at him again, and there was open affection in her expression, along with that special brand of careless candor reserved especially for the inebriated. "You're too hard on yourself, Max."

She tugged on his arm, and reluctantly he sat down beside her. "Yeah?"

She nodded decisively. "I happen to think you're quite the dish."

He blinked, caught off guard. "Really?" he blurted.

"Mm-hmm. I especially like your nose." She leaned in and tapped it lightly for emphasis. "I think it was Basil Rathbone who said that prominent men have prominent noses."

Klinger chuckled. "I like the way he thinks."

Suddenly he shivered as Nellie's little fingers moved to his lips, tracing them meditatively. "You even have nice legs." Her cheeks went bright red, and she closed her eyes in embarrassment. "I mean lips."

For a moment all he could do was stare at her. "Did you just say I have nice legs?" he asked with an incredulous smile.

She examined her fingernails with sudden intense interest. "Maybe I did... and maybe... I... did."

He burst out laughing. "No more scotch on the rocks for you, _habibti_," he said fondly.

At this Nellie made a little irritated noise. "When are you going to tell me what that means?" she asked in an exasperated tone.

"Some other time."

"But it _is_ some other time!"

He shook his head, grinning. "Come on, Nell," he said, patting her knee. "Time for beddy-bye."

"Not yet." Her hand had somehow found its way around his shoulder. He swallowed. When had she gotten so close? "First you have to tell me what it means. Or else I'll write to one of your many uncles and ask them."

"Nellie..."

He felt her fingers idly playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, and he nearly came apart. "Please," she murmured.

Klinger's mouth went dry.

She started to lean into him, and he met her somewhere halfway, and then he was kissing her, he couldn't _not_ kiss her, and good God, everything about her was so _soft_. His arms went around her waist, and she dragged her hands through his hair, and somewhere in the back of his bliss-addled brain, he remarked to himself in surprise that he could barely even taste the scotch on her lips, and—

Abruptly, he pulled away, gasping. "Nellie, I can't," he said hoarsely.

Her brow was furrowed in protest. "Why not? You're a very good kisser." She paused for a moment, seemingly in deliberation. "I realize I have no frame of reference, but..."

Klinger held her firmly away from him. "Sweetheart, you're soused," he told her frankly. "As adorable as you are when you're three sheets to the wind, this isn't right. You're not going to remember any of this in the morning."

She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. At last she sighed and sat back on her cot with a resigned smile. "You're such a gentleman, Max," she said fondly.

"Yeah, yeah." He stood up, a little shakily. "Believe me, I disgust me, too." He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Now go to bed."

"Hey." She waved a warning finger at him, or rather, in his general vicinity. "Watch your tone, Corporal. I still outrank you."

"Uh-huh." He put his hands together and tucked them under his cheek in a gesture mimicking slumber. "Less talkie, more sleepie."

"Brat."

"Lush."

Laughing, she sank down onto her cot, her eyelids already drooping. "Good night, Max," she mumbled sleepily into her pillow. "_Bonne Année_."

Klinger paused at the door of the tent, smiling in the darkness. "_Bonne Année, ma chérie._"

As he stepped back out into the compound, he leaned back against the door, taking slow, even breaths. His heart was pounding relentlessly against his ribcage.

_I wonder if it's too late for a cold shower._

* * *

Nellie wanted to die.

Not only was her head throbbing, her stomach queasy, her muscles aching, and her mouth as dry as the Kalahari, but she had a strange sort of conviction that if she tried to move, her brain would fall out through her ears. What the hell had she been thinking last night? _Three_ scotches? Granted, she'd been upset over Danny's departure, which was only compounded by all that teasing she got about Klinger from Major Winchester, but—

Klinger.

_Major Winchester._

She groaned up at the ceiling of her tent. "Oh, God..."

"Hey, girls, she's awake!"

Cheers went up from several female throats. To Nellie's mortification, her tentmates began to sing. "For she's a jolly good fellow, for she's a jolly good fellow..."

Nellie rolled over and covered her head with her pillow to block out the noise. "Go away," she croaked.

She felt someone sit down on the edge of her cot and tousle her already disheveled hair. "Not a chance," said Kellye. "We've got front row seats to Nellie Malone's hangover. Do you honestly think we'd miss this?"

"Yeah, that was some impressive display last night," added Nurse Clark. "I didn't know Major Winchester could take that kind of abuse. Not without suing for defamation of character."

"Good to know," agreed Nagel.

With Kellye's assistance, Nellie was able to rise to a sitting position, holding her head in agony. The little tent stubbornly refused to stop spinning. "Did I..." She shut her eyes and tried again. "Did I really tell him to suck an egg?"

"You sure did," said Nagel. "Right before you sucked Klinger's face off."

The other nurses burst out laughing, and Nellie buried her face in her hands. _Someone kill me,_ she thought miserably.

"Oh, that reminds me," said Clark, moving to the door of the tent and pushing it open. "Hey, Oberon!" she called. "You can come in now! Your sweet Titania has finally risen from her slumber!"

"Why is everyone so _loud?_" Nellie demanded sullenly.

A swarthy form appeared in the doorway. Reaching out blindly for her glasses, Nellie replaced them on her nose, and the figure resolved itself into a very amused-looking Klinger, holding a mug of steaming coffee. "Hey, there she is," he said in what he no doubt thought was a hushed tone. "The heroine of my heart. And I've got the perfect pick-me-up for a case of the morning-afters."

"Come on, girls," said Kellye, rising to her feet. "Let's leave these two lovebirds alone."

The nurses filed out one by one, and Klinger sat down beside her and pushed the mug into her hands. "Drink up while it's still hot," he told her. "It's less awful that way."

Nellie took a huge swallow of coffee, ignoring the grumble of protest from her stomach. "Thanks, Max," she said gratefully.

"Don't mention it, _habibti_," he replied, patting her knee.

She cringed slightly at the sudden reminder. "Oh, God, Max. I'm so sorry about last night. I hereby apologize for any inappropriate behavior I might have displayed." She took off her glasses and rubbed blearily at her eyes. "That goes double for all the stuff I don't remember."

Klinger chuckled. "Don't give it another thought," he said reassuringly. "I learned a lot about you last night, you know." He grinned and cleared his throat. "For instance, I learned that you think I have nice legs."

Nellie looked up at him sharply, causing a streak of pain to shoot through her head. "I said that?" she asked, wincing.

"Yes, ma'am. In fact, I thought about putting on heels today, just for you."

She smacked him on the arm. "You jerk," she said jokingly.

He raised his dark eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, now _I'm_ the jerk? Last night that title was reserved especially for Major Winchester."

With a groan, Nellie returned her glasses to her face. "Don't remind me," she muttered, taking another swig of coffee. "He probably despises me. _Again_."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Klinger replied. "I got the impression he was a lot more entertained by your little outburst than he was offended. If he'd tried any harder not to smile, I think his face might have imploded."

Nellie gave a humorless laugh. "I'm so glad I could amuse him."

The clerk reached out and tilted her chin up with his hand. "You said some pretty swell things about me," he said warmly. "You probably don't remember most of it, but I want you to know, it meant a lot to me."

She bit her lip in embarrassment. "Well, whatever I said, I'm sure I meant it," she answered shyly.

Klinger hesitated, then leaned in and kissed her softly. She blushed to the roots of her hair, but didn't pull away. After a few moments, he leaned back with a smile. "I've got to file some reports for the colonel," he said, getting to his feet. "I'll check in on you later, okay?"

She nodded, still blushing madly. "Thanks again, Max."

He gave her one last radiant smile before leaving the tent. Feeling a bit dazed, Nellie passed a hand over her flushed cheeks. _Oh, my,_ she thought, _he's rather good at that._

Finishing her coffee, she rose slowly from her cot, her body protesting with every move. All she wanted to do was curl up in a little ball of misery and stay that way for the remainder of the war. But she knew that until she apologized to Major Winchester, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. Or with him, for that matter.

With a put-upon sigh, she changed into some wrinkle-free fatigues and attempted to get her hair under control. Bundling up in her coat, she picked up the empty coffee mug, stepped outside, and staggered off toward the mess tent.

Ignoring the officers, nurses, and enlisted men who bade her a very loud and cheery good morning, Nellie looked around the mess tent, hoping to spot the tall, balding form of the major. Unfortunately, he was not among those present. Frowning, she placed the coffee mug in the used dish tray and walked back outside.

Without warning, she collided into a solid, towering wall of thoracic surgeon. She stumbled backward with a groan, her head spinning painfully.

"Well, good _morning_, Malone," Winchester greeted her in a booming voice, causing her to cringe in agony. "Fancy meeting you here. Do you know, I must admit, I was more than a little worried that you might not survive the night."

A thinly veiled threat about his not surviving the morning crossed Nellie's mind, but she reminded herself that he had every right to be annoyed with her. Instead, she waited until the throbbing in her temples subsided and craned her neck to meet Winchester's gaze.

To her surprise, he did not look angry in the least. On the contrary; a smile was tugging at his lips, and his blue eyes were positively sparkling.

Nellie sighed, sufficiently ashamed. "I'm... I'm so sorry, Major," she said miserably. "Can you ever forgive me?"

Winchester appeared to deliberate on this. "I'm not certain," he replied at last. "I'll have to think about it. Meanwhile," he added in an undertone, "I don't suppose you can forgive me for behaving like a total boor and driving you to drink last night?"

She looked up at him in surprise. "I..." She swallowed, unexpectedly moved. "Yes, sir."

If the major noticed her sudden emotion, he gave no indication. "Splendid." He surprised her again by taking her by the elbow. "Have you any prior appointments? I thought perhaps we could adjourn to the Swamp, play a game or two of Go, listen to some Mendelssohn." He chuckled dryly. "Assuming your head can withstand it."

Nellie smiled, feeling a rush of affection for the dear, infuriating, wonderful, _impossible_ man. "That would be lovely, Major," she said simply.

As she fell into step alongside him, he began to whistle some airy little tune. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "Oh, Malone, I meant to ask you," he said. "You don't have any objection to giving an encore performance of your delightful rantings tonight in the Officers' Club, do you? Father Mulcahy tells me it had an incredible effect on morale."

She stopped dead in her tracks, gaping at him in disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"

"No, not at all," Winchester said innocently. "I believe the 'big, fat jerk' remark was a particular hit among the enlisted men." He smirked at her over his shoulder and continued walking.

For several seconds, all Nellie could do was stare at his retreating back. "Why, you—" she spluttered. "You complete and utter brat!" He snickered evilly. "You get your blue-blooded Bostonian butt back here right now! _Major!_"

* * *

A/N: Okay, this chapter was entirely too long. But it was also entirely too much fun to write. I simply couldn't stop myself. Also, I realize I took a liberty in indicating that Klinger spoke French. But I don't think it's too much of a stretch. Read more about the French occupation of Lebanon if you don't agree. Besides, I like the idea of Klinger speaking French.

You know, I think this has been my favorite chapter to write so far. I really hope you liked it. Why not let me know?

-Octopus

Oh! P.S.! I'm thinking about writing a new synopsis to put in this story's description. Something a little more fitting. And I'm taking suggestions. Any ideas?


	13. I Left Out I Told You So

A/N: Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews on the last chapter. Boy, this newest chapter was a beast to write. It was also the result of several late-night writing marathons. When inspiration hits, it's best not to put it off.

Wow, have I really written _thirteen_ chapters? And the story's not nearly finished. Oh, dear. I've got my work cut out for me.

Disclaimer: The 4077th and its inhabitants are the products of far greater, richer minds than mine. However, Nellie and Danny are my own creations. Such as they are.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Thirteen: I Left Out I Told You So

B.J. Hunnicutt had had just about enough of Korea.

Even at the best of times, he was less than fond of the place. But a massive storm system had recently moved in over the province of Gyeonggi, and had brought with it an unusual amount of precipitation in the form of snow. The entire camp was adrift in a sea of white, and to make matters worse, the casualties had been flooding in with a blatant disregard for the inclement weather. Portable heaters had been erected in the Post-Op Ward and the mess tent, but due to a predictable blunder on the part of the supply sergeant at I-CORPS, their promised shipment of winter clothing and extra blankets had been sent to the 4063rd MASH unit. The men and women of the 4077th had little choice but to become very cozy indeed.

Of course, this was just fine with Hawkeye; now he had one more excuse to throw himself (literally) on the mercy of the nurses. And the same went for the rest of the camp. But B.J. didn't exactly have that option. As a happily married man with his wife on the other side of the Pacific, he was unhappily destined for weeks of shivering helplessly all by his lonesome and waiting around for the icicles to form on his mustache. For him, the sight of all those couples huddling together for warmth was beyond irritating.

He knew he wasn't the only one who was negatively affected by it. Colonel Potter, for instance, had spent scores of cold winters away from his wife. B.J. didn't know how the man could bear to be away from her, but he never complained. Sometimes he felt ashamed of the way he went on and on about Peg. His suffering was nothing compared to the colonel's.

Then again, it could be worse. He could be Charles.

Though the man was too infuriatingly proud to admit it, even under merciless torture from Hawkeye and himself, B.J. knew that Charles was in agony over Nellie and Klinger's relationship. It was not that the Bostonian was himself enamored with the diminutive nurse; or at least, B.J. was fairly certain he wasn't. No, it was difficult to put Charles's benevolent attachment to Nellie in words. It was almost like she was his cherished pet. She brought a smile to his highfalutin face, and he in turn was fiercely protective of her. Anyone who dared to make a flippant remark about the nurse's untidy hair or bookish manner was liable to receive the tongue-lashing of a lifetime, courtesy of the good major.

Why Nellie insisted on inflicting herself with the man's company on a regular basis was beyond B.J.'s comprehension. However, they did share an undeniable rapport, and Charles _was_ slightly less unbearable as a result of their friendship. And for that, the kid deserved a medal.

Lately, though, Nellie's attention had been somewhat divided, and Charles was none too pleased about it. Suddenly his prized Irish setter didn't want to play with him anymore. They still took their meals together in the mess tent, and as always she assisted him in surgery, but more and more of her free time of late had been devoted to spending time with Klinger. Charles never expressed his displeasure in words, but there was no mistaking the look of exquisite horror that crossed his features every time the couple displayed any sort of affection. The man simply couldn't stand the idea of sharing his pet with anyone else, and the fact that that someone was Maxwell Q. Klinger just made it all the more galling. To his credit, Charles had managed to do a fairly good job of pretending he didn't give a damn. But B.J. knew better.

Oh, well. At least it was entertaining.

At any rate, it was more entertaining than listening to Father Mulcahy's fumbling attempts to play "Minnie the Moocher" on the piano in the Officers' Club — tactfully omitting the drug references — while the other patrons half-heartedly echoed the call-and-response chorus back to him. If B.J. heard one more "Ho-dee-ho-dee-ho", he'd be forced to get up and go-dee-go-dee-go.

As Mulcahy took a break to blow into his chilled hands, B.J. snagged the opportunity to get up and order another drink. Hot saké wasn't his favorite beverage, by any means; he'd always thought it tasted like rubbing alcohol. But it did have a very pleasant warming effect.

On his way to the bar, he had to edge his way around Charles and Nellie, who were in the middle of one of their incomprehensible games of Go. For once, Klinger was not among those present, being occupied in trying to obtain more fuel for the generators. As B.J. passed, he accidentally bumped Charles's elbow. Well, semi-accidentally, anyway.

"Will you watch what you're doing, you great lumbering lummox?" he snapped irritably as the little black and white stones danced on the wooden board.

"Now, Major," Nellie chided, looking unusually tiny in her oversized coat and scarf, "just because you're losing spectacularly, that doesn't mean you have to take it out on B.J."

He gave her a withering look across the table. "I am _not_ losing, Malone. Surely anyone can see that we are currently at an impasse." After lengthy consideration, he placed one of his black stones on the board. "Ha!" he said triumphantly. "What do you say to that?"

"_Atari_," she replied in a bored tone, leaning her gloved hand on her cheek.

"Damn," he muttered.

B.J. watched the proceedings with a wrinkled brow. "'_Atari_'?" he repeated. "What does that mean?"

"It means that his piece is in danger of being captured," Nellie explained. "The object of the game is to gain as much territory as you can by surrounding the other player's stones. Whoever has the most space on the board by the end wins the game."

"Hey, just like in real life," B.J. remarked.

Charles ignored this. "Hunnicutt, this is an ancient game of cunning and strategy. A game which requires infinite concentration in order to be able to anticipate your opponent's next moves and plan accordingly. In other words, beat it."

B.J. shook his head. "Charming, isn't he?" he asked Nellie. She merely gave him a long-suffering smile.

Private Straminsky rolled his eyes as he warmed B.J.'s drink. "I think we need to stage an intervention for those two," he said under his breath. "I've never seen anyone so obsessed with anything so _boring_."

"You've never played pinochle with my in-laws," B.J. replied with a grin.

The door to the Officers' Club suddenly swung open with a gust of glacial air, and Klinger dashed inside, wearing what seemed to be every single item of clothing in his wardrobe. "Holy Toledo," he exclaimed through chattering teeth, shaking the snow from his boots, "what I wouldn't give to be in Toledo."

"What are you talking about, Klinger?" B.J. asked in disbelief. "Toledo gets three times more snow than Seoul."

"Yeah, but I can't place a call to Seoul for an order of Packo's world-famous chili cheese fries to warm me up." He jerked his nose in Charles and Nellie's direction. "They still at it?"

B.J. nodded. "I'm not sure, but I think they may have gone into overtime." Straminsky placed his drink on the bar in front of him, and he hurriedly removed his gloves and wrapped his hands around the steaming cup. "Thanks, Igor. You're a prince."

The private chortled. "I thought Klinger was the prince."

"I heard that," muttered Klinger. Making his way over to Nellie's table, he leaned down and hugged the nurse from behind. "Hey, dollface," he said warmly.

The girl smiled up at him, blushing prettily. "Hey, Max, pull up a stool. The major and I are just about finished here."

"We are _not_," growled Charles, his frustration almost palpable.

B.J. watched as Klinger took a seat beside Nellie, scooting as close to her as humanly possible. He was amused to observe the livid hue on Charles's cheeks as the red-haired nurse leaned back against the clerk's shoulder.

"So remind me again," said Klinger, pointing at the board in an admirable attempt to appear interested. "Is this game Chinese or Japanese?"

Nellie chewed her lip in thought for a moment before placing one of her white pieces on the grid. "Both, actually," she replied. "It originated in China over two thousand years ago, but it's still extremely popular in China, Japan, and Korea. Oh, and _atari_," she added off-hand.

"_Damn!_"

"Ah, well," Klinger said with a shrug, "it's all Greek to me."

She gave his arm a playful shove. "So help me, one of these days I'm going to sit you down and teach you how to play."

He sighed. "Aww, come on, Nell. What's the point of playing a game where you don't even get anything if you win?"

"Actually," she said, "there are several Go tournaments in Japan in which enormous cash prizes are awarded to the winners."

Klinger stared at her in surprise. "No kidding," he said in an entirely new tone. He clambered off his stool and fell to his knees in front of her, his hands clasped beseechingly. "In that case, O enlightened one, I am your humble and eager student. Teach me to Go!"

B.J. suppressed a laugh. _Same old typical Klinger._

Nellie reached down and pulled the clerk's hat over his eyes. "I'm afraid you'll have to get Major Winchester's permission first," she told him. "It _is_ his board, after all."

"And he says absolutely, unequivocally _not_," put in Charles, still scowling intently at the board.

Klinger stood up and readjusted his hat with a great show of ceremony. "If it's all the same to you, Your Pompousness, I'll just stick to poker." He took Nellie's hand in his and tugged at it gently. "The colonel gave me the rest of the night off. You want to grab a cup of coffee in the mess tent? When you're finished here, I mean."

"Why don't we go right now?" Nellie stood up and bowed formally over the table to her opponent. "I resign."

Charles began to splutter indignantly. "Resign?" he repeated, fuming. "You...! You can't resign now, I was winning!"

She laughed as she followed Klinger to the door. "Good night, Major," she called cheerily over her shoulder. "Good night, B.J."

"Nighty night," he called back, wiggling his fingers.

She paused beside the piano, where Mulcahy was warming up again. "Good night, Mr. Hi-De-Ho," she told him very seriously, causing the priest to blink owlishly in puzzlement even after she had gone.

B.J. shook his head sadly over his drink. It had finally happened. She'd gone crazy, just like the rest of them.

"The poor child's insane," Charles muttered direly, echoing his own thoughts. "Suddenly that preposterous farce of a relationship makes perfect sense."

"Oh, I don't know," said B.J., strolling over and taking up Nellie's vacated seat. "I think they're kinda cute together."

As predicted, his reward for this observation was Charles's most contemptuous snigger. "'Cute'?" He spoke as if the very word offended his senses. "Surely you jest. The very finest bottle of ipecac could not be a more effective emetic than the sight of those two batting their eyes at one another." He took an alarmingly large slug of his own drink. "At last I know the true meaning of 'throwing pearls before swine'."

"So Nellie likes Klinger," B.J. said with a light shrug. "So what? She's a grown woman. Let her make her own decisions."

Another sardonic laugh. "Correction: she's a grown woman whose experience of men is precisely _nil_. No one ever bothered to warn her of the inherent dangers of consorting with hirsute half-wits."

This was beginning to get rather old. "Don't you think you're being a little hard on Klinger? The guy's been a perfect gentleman so far. Give him a break already."

The older man stared down at the board in contemplation, and B.J. suspected he was considering how to rearrange the pieces to make it appear as if he'd won. At length he cleared his throat. "Hunnicutt," he said in an oddly confidential tone, "may I trust you to be discreet?"

"Sure, why not," he said indifferently, swilling his saké.

Charles passed his hand distractedly through his hair — or lack thereof. "I'm not... I don't..." He seemed, for once, at a loss for words. Finally he sighed in exasperation. "As excruciatingly difficult as it is for me to admit this, I have no direct complaints against Klinger's conduct. On the contrary, he has displayed considerably more chivalry than I'd thought him capable of. It's Malone's behavior which I find... perplexing, to say the very least."

Abruptly he leaned forward on the table, spreading his hands in consternation. "I— I just don't _understand_," he blurted, looking every inch the part of a man afflicted. "The girl seemed so... so deceptively _sensible_. What on earth can she possibly see in the man?"

"Well, let's review." B.J. began ticking the points off his fingers. "He doesn't make disparaging comments about her judgment, he doesn't treat her like a child, he doesn't return her books with the pages all dog-eared..."

"Hunnicutt," Charles said flatly, "go shower with a wolverine."

B.J. drained his drink and set it down with a resounding _crack_. "Look, in all seriousness, if you really care about Nellie, you'll take my advice. Mind your own business. Stop treating her like your pet and _start_ treating her like a person."

To his credit, the Bostonian had the good grace to appear insulted. "I refuse to dignify that absurd accusation with a response," he replied haughtily.

B.J. raised his eyebrows. "Absurd, huh? She might as well be walking around camp wearing a big tag around her neck that reads _Property of Chuck Winchester_." Charles gave a scoff, which he ignored. "Maybe you're right," he said quietly. "Maybe she _is_ making a mistake. Maybe in the end, they're all wrong for each other. How do you want her to remember you if it doesn't work out? As the smug jerk who saw it coming a mile away? Or as her friend?"

For a long moment, Charles was silent as he stared into his brandy, his blue eyes solemn and pensive. Finally he nodded, very slowly. "_Touché_," he conceded in a low voice, looking as humbled as B.J. had ever seen him.

Taking pity on him, he reached out and patted the man on his arm. "I think you're coming along nicely, Chuckles. We'll make a gentleman out of you yet."

Charles sighed and shook his head, muttering to himself under his breath.

"Now," B.J. continued, leaning forward over the Go board and slapping his hands against his thighs, "what do you say? Best two out of three?"

* * *

Sometimes Sherman Potter wondered if he should take a correspondence course in penmanship. It was a pretty bad sign when the commanding officer of a mobile hospital couldn't even read his own handwriting.

It didn't help that his entire surgical staff seemed to suffer from the same affliction. He still hadn't decided whether it was the result of the constant pressures of their environment, or just an inevitable side effect of being a physician, but half the time, he and the other surgeons were forced to get second or third opinions just to make out the patients' charts. It was damned lucky that the nurses were expert Doctor-to-English translators. Somehow, they always knew what it was the surgeons had jotted down, even if they themselves didn't have the foggiest idea.

With the exception of Charles "Mr. Perfect Penmanship" Winchester, of course. His handwriting bore an uncanny resemblance to that on the diploma Potter had received upon graduating from medical school in St. Louis. Whatever the man's other annoying idiosyncrasies, he certainly did wield a pretty pen. Yet another area in which he put everyone else to shame, and didn't mind letting them know.

As Potter sat beside one of the patients' beds in Post-Op, puzzling over how he could have prescribed "pedal-pushers" to the soldier until he realized it actually said "penicillin", he felt a light touch on his shoulder. He looked up to see Margaret standing over him with a tired smile.

"Lieutenant Kellye's just arrived to relieve me, Colonel," she said in a quiet voice, so as not to wake the patients who were asleep. "I'm off to bed."

Potter regarded her with mild surprise. "You mean you're not going to the movie?"

She shook her head, her eyes heavy. "I'm headed straight to my tent, to change into my three warmest pairs of pajamas, crawl under my blankets, and fall asleep with a book on my face." He chuckled. "Besides, I'm not really a fan of silent films."

"Suit yourself, but you're missing out. _The General_ is one of the finest flicks I've ever seen. I'd be in there with the others right now, if I could." He replaced the clipboard which held the boy's chart. "Well, to each his own. Or _her_ own," he corrected himself. "Sweet dreams, Margaret."

"Good night, sir. I'll see you in the morning."

As she left the Post-Op Ward, Potter heard laughter drifting in across the compound through the open door and felt a twinge of envy. He swore he could hear Pierce's goofy cackle all the way from the mess tent. It was a shame he had to miss out; he loved Buster Keaton.

_Oh, well,_ he thought as he got to his feet, _we'll probably show it again. And again, and again, and again._

At least the weather was finally improving. At long last, the snow from that freak flurry had melted, and a good portion of Potter's grouchiness had gone with it. Snow was an entertaining diversion, and awfully pretty to look at, but it was no fun trying to deal with incoming wounded when you and your entire staff were slipping around in the slush. And certainly not for three whole weeks.

After updating Lieutenant Kellye on the status of the patients, Potter eased his tired frame into a chair in the corner and put his feet up on one of the empty beds. Just as he was about to crack open his well-thumbed copy of _Riders of the Purple Sage_, the door connecting Post-Op to the company clerk's office swung open, and Klinger stepped inside.

From her place beside one of the sleeping patients, Kellye looked up and acknowledged the corporal's arrival with a little wave. "Hey, Casanova," she said in a teasing tone.

"Hey, Kellye-bean," he replied with a slight smile, walking over with his hands shoved in the pockets of his ubiquitous fur coat.

"How come you're not watching the movie?"

He shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "Nellie had a headache, and I didn't feel like going without her."

The nurse grinned impishly. "You are just too precious."

Klinger gave a playful yank on her pigtail, and she shoved him away. Leaving her to her work, he made his way toward Potter, who was watching his approach with a growing sense of dread. It seemed like the only time his clerk actively sought him out was when somebody — either I-CORPS, the supply sergeant, or the clerk himself — had screwed up, and things were about to get dicey for every single person in the camp.

This time Potter decided to cut him off at the pass. "All right, Klinger, out with it," he said without preamble. "What happened this time? Did that shipment of scrubs we ordered get lost in the wash? Can we expect a truckload of expectorants instead?"

He blinked at him in confusion. "Huh? Oh, no, no, nothing like that, sir," he hastened to reassure him, taking the pressure off the colonel's blood pressure. "I just wanted to talk to you, that's all. I need some advice."

Potter relaxed. "In that case, have a seat," he told him, gesturing to the empty cot. As the clerk came over and sat down, he observed that he lacked that usual spring in his step which characterized his lighter moods. "What's on your mind?" he asked, setting aside his book.

Klinger looked over his shoulder to see if Kellye was listening. Satisfied that her attention was otherwise engaged, he took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. "Sir," he said in a voice so low that Potter had to strain to hear it, "have you ever been absolutely crazy about a girl, even though you knew she was all wrong for you, but you couldn't bring yourself to admit it, even to yourself, because... well, because you were just so crazy about her?"

Suddenly everything became clear to the older man. _Girl trouble._ He should have known. Klinger had been going steady with the little redheaded nurse from Oregon for almost a month now. Potter was well aware that the two were as different as night and day, but it wasn't easy telling that to a Lebanese in love. Frankly, he was surprised the couple had managed to stick it out for this long.

"I think we've all been there, at one time or another," he said quietly. "Unfortunately, the heart doesn't always have the sense to listen to the head." Klinger sighed, his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. "Am I to take it you're having second thoughts about Nurse Nellie?"

For a long moment, Klinger was silent, staring down at his boots. "I guess I am," he murmured at last. His brow was clouded with anxiety. "It's not that I've stopped caring about her, or anything like that. In fact, that's the worst part. I know we don't have a chance, and I'm _still_ nuts about her." He gave a humorless laugh which caught in his throat. "We don't have a chance," he repeated unsteadily. "That's the first time I've said that out loud."

Potter sensed an emotional breakdown coming on. He leaned in and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Easy, son," he said soothingly. "You can't say that for certain."

"Oh, I can't?" Klinger replied bitterly. "In case you haven't noticed, sir, Nellie and I have nothing in common. And when I say nothing, I mean _nothing_." He quickly wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "She loves Shakespeare, and big words, and going to the opera. I love beer, and baseball, and... and _not_ going to the opera." He shook his head. "I know I'm not the brightest penny in the fountain. Until now, I've never been much bothered by it. But next to _her_, I feel like a dribbling idiot."

He spread his heads in a gesture of helplessness. "I wish I could be the kind of guy she should be with, I really do. But I can't." He gave a quiet sniff. "It's just not who I am."

Potter gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. "You're right, Max," he said gently. "And you know something? That's okay. Because you're just fine the way you are."

He scoffed. "Yeah, sure," he muttered.

"Sure I'm sure. Look, son," he told him seriously. "I know you care about the girl. And I've seen the way she looks at you, too. But the cold, hard truth is, some people just aren't meant for each other. And it's not anybody's fault. Why do you think farmers don't put mules and oxen under the same yoke together?"

The corporal shot him a frustrated glance. "Colonel, I'm a city boy. You're going to have to ease up on the cowboy metaphors."

"Hold on, and I'll explain," Potter said patiently. The clerk dutifully fell silent. "Let's say you wanted to plow a field. You wouldn't yoke together an ox and a mule — two very _different_ animals — because the plow wouldn't get to where it's supposed to go, and both animals would suffer." He paused. "You see what I'm saying?"

Klinger was quiet for a long time. Finally he swallowed. "I think so," he said, almost inaudibly.

Potter felt a pang of sympathy for the lad. "I know it hurts like hell right now," he said, lowering his voice further. "But trust me, it'll hurt a lot worse if you keep ignoring what your gut's trying to tell you."

The clerk smiled grimly. "I thought it was my head I was supposed to be listening to," he joked, with a trace of his old humor.

"Well, whatever it is you do your best thinking with." Klinger rose slowly to his feet, releasing a shaky breath. "You going to be all right, son?" he asked.

He passed a hand wearily over his face. "Probably not, but at least now I know what to do." He hesitated, before adding in a low voice, "Thank you, Colonel."

"Any time," he replied, and made sure by his tone that Klinger knew he meant it.

Potter watched him go, and continued to sit there for some time, staring off into space. Finally, with an air of decision, he stood up and crossed the room, stooping over Nurse Kellye, who was taking a patient's temperature.

"Lieutenant, I'll be back in twenty minutes. If there's an emergency, come and get me."

Kellye nodded, looking slightly bewildered. "Yes, sir," she answered. "Oh, Colonel," she called after him, "where will you be?"

"In the mess tent. I could really do with a good laugh right about now."

* * *

_All right, Max,_ Klinger told himself as he walked toward the supply shed, his heart pounding in his ears. _You can do this. Remember what the colonel said. It may hurt now, but it's for the best._

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately he caught the familiar scent of hay and animals. Lately, the temperature had been far too cold for Radar's pets to survive out in the compound, so with Potter's permission, the hutches had been moved to the supply shed, where they would be safe from the elements. It was a waste of resources, of course, since the light had to be left on during the day for the little critters, but no one was about to complain. It was the least they could do for Radar.

As he moved quietly forward, Klinger heard a low laugh issue from the back of the shed. Rounding one of the supply shelves, he saw Nellie standing by the hutches, attempting to feed a piece of lettuce to one of the rabbits.

"Hold on, wait for me to let go of it first," she told it, her tone gently rebuking. "Little glutton."

For a while, Klinger simply watched her as she deposited food into each of the hutches, talking quietly to the animals as she went. As he stood there, he gradually became aware of a heavy, nauseous sensation settling in the pit of his stomach. Reaching into his inner coat pocket, he pulled out a silver pocketwatch and stared down at it. The sick feeling in his stomach suddenly increased tenfold.

_I can't do this._

He honestly couldn't do it. He could not bring himself to hurt her, for any reason. So what if they had nothing in common? More unequal matches were made every day. Besides, she was such a sweet girl. The sweetest he had ever known. She had never lost her temper with him, or put him down, or even so much as raised her voice at him. She treated him like... like he was actually worthwhile.

He'd just have to learn to get used to being her dumber half, that's all. It wouldn't be the first time. None of the women he'd dated had ever made any secret of their own intellectual superiority.

Meanwhile... She would be tethered to an average Joe for the rest of her life.

...Oh, God.

She deserved better than that. She deserved someone who could really appreciate just how bright she was. Someone who could take her to the symphony without falling asleep on her shoulder. Someone who didn't stare at her with a blank expression whenever she went into what could only be described as "nerd mode". Someone who didn't need to consult a dictionary in order to hold an intelligent conversation with her.

Someone besides him.

He swallowed, remembering the colonel's words: _The cold, hard truth is, some people just aren't meant for each other._

He really hated the truth sometimes.

"Max!"

His head shot up in surprise, and he was jolted back to reality by the sight of Nellie staring at him, her hands on her hips. "Exactly how long have you been standing there?" she asked in mild reproval.

Klinger quickly stashed the watch inside his coat again. "Oh, uhh," he stammered guiltily, "not... not very long. I was just, uhh—"

She came forward and silenced him with a kiss, and he felt his resolve weaken yet again. She may have been inexperienced, but damn, she was a fast learner. "You know, you're sort of cute when you're incoherent," she said, pulling away with one of her crooked smiles.

He gave a feeble laugh. "Then you must find me irresistible pretty much all the time," he managed to reply.

Her smile widened, and she leaned in again. "Well, I wasn't going to call attention to it, but..."

_Ya Allah!_

"Whoa, wait, wait, _hey_, hold on," he said, gently extricating himself from her embrace. She was definitely not making this easy. "Listen, Nell, there's something..." He willed himself to say it. "There's something I need to talk to you about."

She blinked at him through her cat-eye glasses, but nodded. "Sure, Max, of course," she answered. He led her over to a couple of crates and gestured for her to sit down. She seated herself on one of them and crossed her legs. "Now," she said, "tell me what's up."

Suddenly Klinger was finding it somewhat difficult to breathe. "Okay," he began. "Uhh... Okay. So Nellie." Where was he going with this, anyway? "You know how, sometimes, you can't put a mule together with an ox, without breaking a few yokes?"

The redhead stared up at him for a long time. Very slowly, she shook her head. "Not even remotely," she said.

He suppressed a groan of frustration. Boy, he was off to a great start. "All right, forget about that. What I'm trying to say is..." He took a deep breath. "Nellie, where do you see this going?"

She frowned in confusion. "'This'?" she echoed.

"Yeah, this. Us. You and me." Oh, God, this was hard. "Where do you see us, after the war is over?"

Nellie was silent for a moment. At length she gave an uncomfortable shrug. "I'm not sure, to be entirely honest," she said slowly. "The war just seems like... like such an absolute constant at the moment. It's hard to imagine anything beyond it." She shook her head. "But we can deal with that eventuality when it gets here. _If_ it gets here, that is," she added with a slight, rueful smile.

He sighed and began pacing the floor of the shed. "That's easy to say _now_," he said in a low voice. "But what if the war ended tomorrow? I couldn't ask you to put your life in San Francisco on hold and come all the way to Toledo with me. But at the same time, I can't ignore my responsibilities there, either. All my family's there. And even if somehow, we managed to make some kind of arrangement, how long could we keep it going?"

"Max?"

He turned toward her voice. She was sitting very still on the crate, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her face was white, her eyes wide and fearful. "Are you breaking up with me?" she asked in a small voice.

"_No_," he blurted instantly, and without thinking. "I mean," he said hastily, "I mean, I don't _want_ to, but... but I'm just trying to... to be realistic..."

"Have I done something to upset you?" she asked, in that same, strangely childlike tone.

Klinger felt something twist painfully in his chest. "Believe me, Nell, you could never do anything to upset me. I just... Oh, God, sweetheart, don't look at me like that." He knelt beside her and took her hand in both of his. "I care about you, Nellie. So, _so_ much. But sooner or later we're going to have to face facts. We're just... too different. We could pretend all we want that we have a future together, but we'd only be kidding ourselves."

Nellie shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts. "Need I remind you," she said, sounding more like her usual self, "that _you_ were the one who pursued _me?_"

He looked down at the floor to avoid her piercing gaze. "I know I did," he said quietly. "And I shouldn't have put that kind of pressure on you, I see that now. But you've got to believe me, Nell, I wouldn't trade these past few weeks we've had together for anything in the world."

She cleared her throat, causing him to look up at her. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. "Is this..." She hesitated, then tried again. "Would this have anything to do with the fact that we haven't... you know..."

His eyes widened as he realized what she meant. "Oh, no, no," he assured her quickly, squeezing her hand. "That's not it at all. Trust me, I could have easily waited, for as long as you needed. Well, maybe not _easily_, but I still could have waited." He was starting to go off the rails now. In his defense, he'd never had to break up with a girl before. They always managed to beat him to the punch.

He took a deep breath and shook his head. "The truth is, you deserve a whole lot better than me, Nellie. You're a smart, classy girl. I'm a former D student with a criminal record and a hell of an alimony payment." He had to blink rapidly to clear his vision. "As much as it's killing me to say this, I can't let you throw away your life just to please me. You mean way too much to me."

Nellie was silent for a long time, and Klinger's heart grew heavier with every second. She seemed to be looking _through_ him, instead of at him. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he saw her nod almost imperceptibly. "I understand," she said very calmly.

Klinger blinked at her, somewhat taken aback. "Uhh... You do?" he asked guardedly.

"Yes, I understand." She stood up swiftly, nearly knocking him backward. "I mean, I'm not happy about it," she continued in that same unruffled tone. "But you're right, of course. In the end, it all comes down to compatibility, and we _are_ two very different people. It would be silly to pretend otherwise."

As he clambered to his feet, he observed her composure with more than a little surprise. "Then you're..." He could hardly get the words out. "You're okay with this?"

Nellie smiled a little, but her heart wasn't in it. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed, Max," she replied. "But I'll be all right. And I appreciate how difficult it must have been for you to tell me."

He exhaled in relief. "Oh, thank God. I've been agonizing over how to break it to you." He hesitated. "Listen, Nell... I know this is a pretty dumb thing to say, especially now. But I really hope we can still be friends."

She smiled again, and this time, he knew she meant it. "Of course, Max," she said, a little thickly.

Gratefully, Klinger held out his arms, and she stepped forward into his embrace. He held her tightly, trying his damnedest not to cry. Now he was absolutely _positive_ he had never deserved her.

"So," she said into his shoulder, her voice muffled, "now that the Klinger-Malone whirlwind romance is officially over, can you at least tell me what '_habibti_' means?"

He suddenly froze. "Oh, God." He swallowed, hard. "Uhh... I, I don't know if I should."

Nellie pulled back and frowned at him. "Why not? It's not _indecent_, is it?"

"No, no, nothing like that, it's just—"

"Max," she said in a warning tone.

He exhaled shakily. "All right, all right."

She folded her arms and looked up at him expectantly.

"It means 'my love'."

* * *

Charles Winchester had reached the very end of his patience. Earlier in the day, he had pulled on his dull green military-issue coat, only to find that the zipper had broken. Since a coat which did not close was no coat at all, he had set off in search of the supply sergeant, Zelmo Zale, to obtain a new one. (_Zelmo Zale._ What a name. If his own father had cursed him with such a misfortunate moniker, Charles would have had no choice but to secede from the family. As it was, he had always secretly found the idea of naming one's progeny after oneself just a tad too reminiscent of ancient Egypt.)

When, after a needlessly thorough search, he had finally found Zale, the man was sprawled in a heap under one of the tables at Rosie's, "sleeping one off", as Charles believed the saying went. He knew very well that the 4077th had, at long last, received their promised shipment of winter clothing, and that there were plenty of coats to go around. But in a twist typical of the boneheaded bureaucracy of the Army, it was impossible to get _anything_ without first obtaining the necessary written permission of the camp's supply sergeant. It was inescapably evident that Zale was in no condition to do any writing, and no amount of shouting, jostling, or threats of demotion would make the least bit of difference. And so, leaving the sergeant on the floor to be dealt with later, Charles had stood up and stalked out of the bar, heading back toward camp.

Now, as the wind whipped through his open jacket, chilling him to the bone, he cursed under his breath. _To hell with it,_ he thought, adjusting his course. He would go to the supply shed, grab a coat in his size, and make Zale sign the appropriate forms later.

When he opened the door, he observed that the light was already on. He puzzled over this for a moment before remembering that the shabby Quonset hut was currently doubling as the winter home of Radar O'Reilly's little menagerie. If they had belonged to anyone else, the animals would have undoubtedly been released into the wild to fend for themselves, but the bespectacled boy from Iowa still held a special place in the hearts of everyone in the camp... including, he had to admit rather reluctantly, his own.

He shook his head to himself, his eyes rolling heavenward. How perfectly sickening.

Moving forward in the dim light, Charles perused the numerous shelves, hoping that for once the labels on the various crates and boxes would correspond with their contents. He was trying to figure out what possible use a mobile hospital unit could have with an inflatable rubber raft when he suddenly became aware of an odd noise.

It was a sort of quiet snuffling, coming from the back of the shed. For a moment, Charles thought it might be the skunk, which tended to make the most bizarre sounds when it was hungry. But the longer he listened, the more he became convinced that the source was human.

Frowning to himself, he made his way to the far side of the hut, where the animals' hutches were being kept. And then he froze.

There, perched on a crate marked "Winter Apparel", her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms encircling her shins, was Fenella Malone. Her face was hidden by her curtain of unruly hair, and her shoulders were shaking with silent sobs.

"Malone," he said, the concern in his voice surprising himself, "whatever's the matter?"

She stood slowly and raised her head to meet his gaze, and Charles was slightly alarmed at the sight. There were some women who managed to look attractive even when they were crying. Malone was, unfortunately, not one of those women. Her glasses were missing from her face, and her green eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Her cheeks were blotchy and tearstained, her nose was as red as a beet, and her mouth was contorted into a rather interesting shape.

But even so, the sight of her in tears provoked a very unexpected reaction in him. Before he even knew what he was doing, he had moved swiftly forward and gathered her into his arms.

If Malone was taken aback, then it was nothing compared to the shock Charles himself felt. He had acted without thinking, which was absolutely unheard of for a Winchester. If Honoria ever found out, he'd never hear the end of it. At a later date, no doubt, he would have to analyze this inexplicable behavior. But at the moment, he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

After her initial surprise had worn off, Malone accepted his ill-conceived gesture of comfort, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his open jacket. As he held her shuddering form close to his body, Charles felt a surge of protectiveness toward her. He had never before seen her so vulnerable, and it was causing a rather uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

Gradually her sobs abated, and she pulled away, wiping at her cheeks in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Major," she said unsteadily. "I would have preferred for you not to have seen me like this."

He shook his head vehemently. "If you have any respect for me at all, Malone, you will banish the thought from your mind this instant," he told her firmly. "Even the most resilient of us have our moments of weakness." He paused, before adding in a slightly jesting tone, "My own has yet to come, but if in the event it does, I trust you will not think any less of me."

As he'd hoped, this comment succeeded in eliciting a smile, albeit a weak one, from the girl. "Oh, no, of course not, sir," she said wryly.

Reaching into his coat, Charles pulled out his handkerchief and offered it to her. With a grateful glance up at him, she took it from him and proceeded to blow her nose loudly, while he tried his best not to be disgusted. "Now," he prompted, gently declining her attempt to return it to him, "perhaps you'll have the goodness to tell me what it is that is causing you such distress."

For a long moment, Malone was silent, wringing the handkerchief in her hands. Finally she spoke in a low, tremulous voice. "Max broke it off with me."

Charles nodded, very calmly. "I see." Turning swiftly on his heel, he proceeded to move purposefully toward the door of the supply shed.

"Where are you going?" Malone asked, her voice raised in alarm.

"To snap that Arabian imbecile in half."

"No, Major, wait," she called, hurrying after him and catching him by the arm. "Please, don't be angry with him. He acted for the best. We both knew it would never work between us... no matter how much we cared for each other." She gave his arm a squeeze. "Please, don't tell Max about this. We were supposed to have parted amicably, and I'd hate for him to feel guilty about it."

As he turned and met her pleading gaze, he felt his ire drain away. "Oh, very well," he growled, knowing he would regret it later.

"I appreciate it, sir." He acknowledged her thanks with a curt nod, and her hand fell away. At length she heaved a miserable sigh. "So I guess this is the part where you say 'I told you so'."

Charles looked down at the redhead, her cheeks still streaked with drying tears. If there was a time to say it, then it was certainly now.

"Strangely enough," he said quietly, "that would not afford me even the slightest satisfaction." He hesitated, then placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm so very sorry, Malone."

Her face crumpled again, and again he drew her into his arms. As he held her, he wondered at the irrational sense of pride he felt at being the one to offer her comfort — not Margaret, or Kellye, but _him_. Charles Emerson Winchester, a man who had failed miserably to comfort his own sister when, at age sixteen, her heart had been broken by the Bassington boy. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

"I know it's ridiculous," Malone said into the front of his shirt, "but there's a part of me that can't help thinking that this is my fault."

"You're right. That is _patently_ ridiculous."

She gave a harsh, humorless laugh. "I just... I'm completely out of my depth here. I'm a nurse, and I'm an older sister. And that's all I know how to be." Her voice broke. "What if I never learn how to be anything else?"

"You will," Charles assured her, rubbing her back absently. "You must give yourself time, that's all."

She tightened her hold on him, and he suddenly felt a bit light-headed, as if the oxygen had been sucked from the little shed. "You want to know the worst part?" she asked bitterly, unaware of his discomfort. "I honestly didn't see it coming. I knew we were all wrong for each other, but..." She sniffed. "But I loved the way he made me feel. I'd never had that kind of attention before, and it made me feel... beautiful." He felt her shake her head. "For the first time in my life, I felt beautiful."

"Malone..." Charles placed his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm's length. Reluctantly, she met his eyes, and he took a deep breath. "Far be it from me to contradict a lifetime of self-doubt," he said very seriously. "But your beauty goes far beyond anything as superficial as aesthetics."

As he watched, a shadow of her old lopsided smile returned to her lips. She hugged him tightly around his waist. "You're such a good friend," she said gratefully. "Thank you, Major."

He rested his cheek against her wild red hair, letting his eyes drift shut. A slow, familiar ache began to build in his chest. "Please," he heard himself say, "call me Charles."

* * *

A/N: Oh, dear. I love Charles. Know who else I love? B.J. Know who else? Colonel Potter. God help me, I love them all. How can fictional characters just burrow their way into our hearts the way they do? I'll never understand it.

So I'll bet you thought Nellie would break Klinger's heart, not the other way around. Well, I like to throw my readers a curve ball every now and then. I'm a jerk that way. If you're not too angry, please take the time to review. I worked rather hard on this chapter.

-Octopus


	14. As the Poets Would Say, Hubba Hubba

A/N: My thanks, as always, goes out to my loyal reviewers, you wonderful people, you. Your continued interest in my story means more to me than you know. I'd like to issue a special thank you to RoseLight for her constructive feedback. Coming from someone who writes Charles as well as you do, my dear lady, your kind words were high praise indeed.

Disclaimer: _M*A*S*H_ (the television series) is almost forty years old. I am only twenty-six. If there are no other questions, shall we proceed?

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Fourteen: As the Poets Would Say, Hubba Hubba

It was February in Korea, and Margaret Houlihan was in a rotten mood. She had tossed and turned the entire night through, but sleep had never come. As a result, she had been awake at five in the morning when Klinger had frantically informed her that Captain Hunnicutt needed her assistance. One of the patients in Post-Op had suddenly gone into shock, and she and Hunnicutt had been at their wits' end trying to figure out why, until one of the other soldiers had informed them that the boy was hypoglycemic. For some incomprehensible reason, that important bit of information was not in his personnel file. Because, of course, that would have been too helpful.

Aside from the usual pressures of working in a MASH unit, there was the dismal reminder that the fourteenth of February was only a week away. If there was anything more depressing than being recently divorced, it was being recently divorced on Valentine's Day. Whose idea was that stupid holiday, anyway?

And on top of everything else, the mess tent was fresh out of coffee. All that was left was... Huh. What in God's name _was_ that?

"Do I even want to know what that is?" asked Margaret, staring dubiously at the pinkish-yellow mass which sat on the serving tray. It looked a lot like flan gone horribly wrong.

Private Straminsky followed her gaze downward. "I wouldn't recommend it, Major," he replied with his usual air of hangdog melancholy.

Margaret sighed. "Tell me anyway."

"Spam quiche Lorraine." She shot him a look of profound revulsion. "I warned you, didn't I?"

She rolled her eyes. "I think I'll just stick with corn flakes," she said.

"A wise choice, ma'am," Stravinsky replied, nodding sagely. "Will that be with canned milk or powdered?"

She suppressed a shudder. "Surprise me."

As the private prepared her breakfast, Margaret's gaze drifted around the mess tent. The plain truth was, she was never quite sure where to sit. As head of the nursing staff, she didn't always feel comfortable sitting with her nurses, lest they become too relaxed around her and forget who was in charge. And she certainly couldn't sit with the N.C.O.s. That would just be... weird.

Today most of the tables were either empty or occupied by corpsmen. Margaret was about to resign herself to sitting alone when she spotted Nurse Malone slouched at a table in the far corner, staring blankly at a full cup of steaming coffee.

Margaret hesitated, her tray in her hands. She didn't want to appear too soft, but she also knew that Malone was more than a little intimidated by her. That was all part of the job, of course. Still, Margaret was no monster. She knew how hard it was to be an officer and a woman at the same time. At the very least, there was no harm in putting the young nurse more at ease.

Taking a deep breath, Margaret straightened her back and marched over to the table. As she set down her tray and took a seat opposite Malone, she managed to muster a pleasant smile in spite of her sour mood. "Good morning, Lieutenant," she said.

She waited for a reply, but there was none forthcoming. Margaret frowned and proceeded to subject Malone to a more narrow scrutinization. The redhead continued to simply stare into her coffee with a sort of vacantly gloomy expression on her freckled face. She appeared as if she were on another planet.

"You know," said Margaret after a while, "caffeine isn't traditionally absorbed through the eyes. You have to actually ingest it to get the full effects."

"Oh," the nurse said in a dull monotone. "Right."

Margaret was beginning to grow concerned. It wasn't like Malone to address her superiors without using their titles; unless, of course, her superiors insisted otherwise. Pierce and Hunnicutt, she knew, hated to be reminded of their rank. She had noticed, too, that Malone had recently started addressing Charles by his given name, and he certainly didn't seem to mind. Which was interesting, to say the least.

But all that was beside the point. The point was, Malone was always respectful. But she had barely acknowledged Margaret's presence. And that was just bizarre.

She cleared her throat, which finally succeeded in getting the nurse's attention. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet the major's. "Is everything all right, Lieutenant?" she asked levelly.

"Yes, Major," she answered, sounding a bit more deferential. "I'm just a little tired, that's all."

Margaret regarded her skeptically. She was less than convinced. "We're all tired, Malone," she said quietly. "I have a feeling this is something else entirely."

The young woman didn't reply. Her mouth was set just a little too firmly, her eyes a little too bright. She'd seen that look before on other people. Usually as a precursor to a nervous breakdown.

Leaning across the table, she dropped her voice to a more confidential tone. "If there's something going on with you, Malone, then I have a responsibility to find out what it is. If it affects one of my nurses, then it affects this entire hospital."

There was a brief silence, during which Malone pensively held Margaret's gaze. "I'm aware of that, Major," she said at length. "But I'm all right. Really."

Margaret sighed. She had been holding back her last card, because she'd been hoping she wouldn't have to play it. "Look, I didn't want to bring this up," she said, lowering her voice even further, "but I heard about you and Corporal Klinger."

Malone's hands tightened visibly around the mug in her hands. But after a few seconds, her shoulders seemed to relax. "That doesn't surprise me," she finally murmured, sounding more tired than perturbed. She pushed her hair out of her face with a frustrated gesture. "It's not just that. It's... everything. The stress, the long hours, the distance from home, the _appalling_ food... Wearing the same boring shade of green day after day..."

She took a deep, calming breath. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to vent on you. And I really do appreciate your concern. But I can assure you, I'd never let my personal problems interfere with my duties."

Margaret gave her a slight smile. "Now that I _do_ believe, Lieutenant."

The redhead hesitated, chewing her lower lip. "Does it... Does it ever get any easier?" she asked, with an unexpected air of vulnerability.

The head nurse felt a pang. "Not really," she said quietly. "You just get used to it."

Malone's lips twitched in a brief, ironic smile. "Somehow, ma'am, I knew you were going to say that."

As Margaret set herself to the task of trying to stomach her now soggy cereal, she became aware of the sound of singing. As the source of the voice gradually became discernable, she rolled her eyes. Of course. Only Pierce was nutty enough to bellow old English folk ballads at the top of his lungs first thing in the morning.

"Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight," he warbled as he strolled in through the doors of the mess tent, earning several exasperated looks from the other patrons. "Greensleeves was my heart of gold, and who but my lady Greensleeves..."

To Margaret's eternal vexation, the chief surgeon plopped his lanky frame down onto the bench right beside her. "Good morrow, pretty fair maids," he said with a mischievous grin. "Canst thou spare a kiss for a poor wandering minstrel?"

"Oh, go shove it up your lute," growled Margaret. Nobody had any business being _that_ cheerful.

Pierce blinked at her, clearly taken aback. "All right, all right, I'll settle for a smile," he said, a little more subdued. He cast a glance over at Malone, who had hardly even noticed his entrance, and passed a hand back and forth in front of her eyes. "Come on, Red, you're killing me here."

Malone shook her head wearily. "I'm sorry, Hawkeye, I'm just not in the mood right now." She pushed herself up from the table. "Please excuse me."

"Hang in there, Malone," Margaret called after her.

"Yeesh," said Pierce, watching the redhead's departing figure. "What's wrong with her?"

After a brief moment of indecision, Margaret reached out across the table and grabbed Malone's untouched coffee. She took a huge swallow of the black liquid. "Same thing that's wrong with the rest of us," she answered at last.

Pierce's blue eyes narrowed for a second, before widening again in comprehension. "The Uijeong-blues?"

"Bingo."

"It is that time of year." With a sigh, he leaned his chin on his bony fist. "This place is bad enough as it is. Do we really need to be reminded that in a week's time, couples all over the world will be sipping champagne and making out in Studebakers, while we're over here drinking flat beer left over from a previous war and playing 'How Far Away Was That Last Round of Shelling?'"

Margaret shifted in her seat, unsettled to hear her own thoughts being echoed by someone else. "You're not helping my mood, Pierce."

He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Give me half an hour to make it up to you," he said suggestively.

She snorted. "You'd need a lot longer than that," she deadpanned.

Pierce leaned in close and lowered his voice to a silky purr. "Is that an invitation?"

She swatted him on the arm, but there was no real anger behind the action. A year ago, she would have repaid the man's effrontery with a sound slap across the face. Then again, she may have been wound a little too tightly back then. It was funny, how so many things had changed in such a short time. In a way, she was sort of glad they had.

Besides, slapping him would have done nothing to discourage him, anyway.

As she sipped her newly-appropriated coffee, Colonel Potter came in from the cold and shuffled through the mess line, inspecting each offering with a dubious eye before settling on a bowl of oatmeal. As he sank down across the table from them, a disagreeable look plastered across his features, Margaret could tell that Pierce's diagnosis was confirmed. Whatever the cause of their current bad mood, it was definitely going around.

"Boy," said Potter, scowling at his offending breakfast as if it had personally bitten him in the backside, "just once I'd like to have a bowl of oatmeal that didn't look and taste like wallpaper paste."

Margaret rolled her eyes. It had become a camp tradition to complain about the lousy food, and she, for one, was sick of it. "Oh, quit your belly-aching and eat your paste. Sir," she blurted hastily as the colonel fixed his glare on her.

"Tread softly, Colonel," warned Pierce. "Miss Margaret's a mite miffed this morning."

"Miss Margaret ain't the only one." Potter prodded his oatmeal with the tip of his spoon. "You know that shipment of anaesthetic that came in yesterday?" They nodded. "I just took a gander at the shelf date. It expired, _six months_ ago. It's all bad. Every last bottle."

They both groaned. "You've got to be kidding," said Pierce.

"I wish I was. On top of that, my company clerk — our very own ruddy ray of sunshine, or so I _thought_ — damn near bit my head off not ten minutes ago. All because I had the audacity to ask him when the next mail shipment was coming in." He shook his head. "If I didn't know better, I'd say this whole camp has come down with a case of gloomy-gus-itis."

Margaret nodded. "We were just talking about that, sir."

"There's got to be something we can do to boost morale around here," said Pierce. "I haven't seen everyone this down since Radar left."

"Thanks, son, I really needed that reminder," Potter muttered under his breath. Margaret patted his hand.

"I'll tell you what it is," said Pierce bitterly. "It's this rotten holiday. All the married people are in a funk because their spouses are thousands of miles away. And all the unmarried people are in a funk because they _don't_ have spouses that are thousands of miles away. It's a lose-lose situation."

"What if we threw a party?" suggested Margaret. "That would definitely lift everyone's spirits."

"Or better yet, why don't we all go home?" Pierce replied. "I can guarantee you that would lift _my_ spirits."

"Now wait a minute," said Potter. "That's not a bad idea."

"Thank you, Colonel," he chirruped brightly.

"Not _your_ idea, you goofball," the older man growled. "A party might be just the thing to keep everyone's minds off the war, if only for a few hours."

"Okay, fair enough." Pierce leaned in across the table and lowered his voice. "You really want to get people's minds off the war? Then the war shouldn't be invited. How about a party where olive drab is expressly forbidden? An anti-war, anti-Army, anti-Valentine's Day party?"

Margaret stared at him. "You know," she said slowly, "I think you may be on to something."

"I have my moments," he said with a smug grin.

"No, really," she continued, beginning to grow animated by the prospect. "I think it's a great idea. In fact, we could even have a contest! The best-dressed civilian wins a weekend trip to Seoul!"

Potter raised a finger. "Now, hold on a minute—"

"What are we waiting for?" she exclaimed, springing to her feet. "We've only got until the fourteenth to get everything ready. We've got to start spreading the word!"

"Did you know you get the cutest wrinkle on your nose when you get excited?" said Pierce dreamily.

"I never said anything about a weekend trip to Seoul," Potter groused.

"Oh, it shouldn't be too hard for you, Colonel," Margaret said with a breezy wave of her hand. She leaned down and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Got to go, sir. See, this whole party idea is working already!"

It wasn't until she stepped outside into the compound that it hit her.

She didn't have a thing to wear.

* * *

"Well, this was a ridiculous idea," grumbled Nellie.

Kealani Kellye looked up from painting her fingernails and smirked in amusement as she watched the redhead try to brush the tangles out of her hair. Her efforts only succeeded in making it even more frizzy. "How's that again?" she asked.

"This 'No Khaki Allowed' soirée which we've all been ordered to attend," Nellie clarified, rolling her eyes in displeasure. "I didn't exactly pack a whole lot of civilian attire. And somehow I doubt that Bloomingdale's makes rush deliveries. Ouch!" she yelped as her comb got caught on a particularly nasty gnarl. "I'll bet you anything that this was Hawkeye's idea. I've never known anyone in the military to be so stubbornly _un_-military in all my life." She threw down her comb in frustration. "To hell with it. I'll just go to the party as Raggedy Ann."

Kellye sighed wearily. This had gone on long enough. "Look," she said, "I know you and Major Winchester are both fond of your Greek tragedies, but do you think you could stop being such a negative Nellie? It's getting old, and besides, it doesn't suit you."

She met Kellye's gaze through her hand mirror and sighed. "I suppose I have been a bit of a pain lately, haven't I?" she said apologetically.

"Yes, you have," Kellye replied matter-of-factly. "But don't worry about it. Everyone gets down in the dumps, at least in this place. It was just your turn, that's all."

Nellie shook her head ruefully, her hair flying in a dozen different directions. "That's no excuse for acting like a total sad-sack," she said.

"All right, then here's a good excuse," the Hawaiian nurse countered, blowing on her nails to dry them more quickly. "You've recently gone through your very first break-up. That's not something you can just brush off. Not if you're human, anyway."

The redhead glowered at her reflection. "Don't remind me," she muttered. "I know Max was acting in both our best interests when he called it off. And I know I promised him that we would still be friends, and I've tried very hard to keep that promise. But that doesn't necessarily mean that I don't want to kick him in the shins."

Kellye laughed. "I'd be a little worried if you didn't," she said. Nellie nodded sourly. "You should know, I tried to hate him, for your sake," she continued. "But when you get right down to it, that was a pretty selfless thing he did. Besides," she added with a shrug, "it's kind of hard to stay mad at Klinger."

Nellie smiled ever so slightly. "Tell me about it," she murmured.

She stood up and ruffled the girl's hair. "Say, you know what would cheer you up?" she said brightly. "I heard about a swell party being held in the mess tent tonight. All your friends will be there. And you can even kick your ex-boyfriend in the shins. As long as you make it look like an accident."

From the look on Nellie's face, it was plain to see that she was trying not to laugh. She didn't succeed. "Fine, you win," she said with a smile. "But I can guarantee you I won't be winning any trips to Seoul. I have nothing decent to wear, and my hair looks like some bizarre parasitic plant has attached itself to my head."

Kellye rolled her eyes. "Well, of course it does, you goose. You're going about it all wrong."

"Beg pardon?"

She pointed at the redhead's comb. "There's your first mistake right there. You're trying to brush it out while it's dry. All you're doing now is making cotton candy."

"Then what do you suggest?" Nellie asked in exasperation.

"You've got to brush all the tangles out while it's still wet. And then what you do is, you take each curl and twist it around your finger. Then you just let it air dry, and you've got curls Shirley Temple would kill for. And unlike hers, they're natural."

"Huh." Nellie shook her head in amazement. "So that's why your hair always looks perfect."

Kellye snorted. "Yeah," she muttered, her thoughts drifting elsewhere. More specifically, in the direction of the Swamp. "I don't know why I bother. It's not like anyone ever notices."

Nellie sighed and twisted around in her chair, regarding her sympathetically. "Kellye," she said gently. "Honestly, I don't know why you let Hawkeye get to you."

At the mention of the lanky surgeon's name, Kellye felt her throat tighten. "Yeah, I don't know, either," she said with a forced laugh. "It's stupid. Even if I _was_ tall and blonde and skinny, he'd probably just string me along until he lost interest, like he does with everybody else." Her smile faded. "Still, it's kind of insulting to know that a guy who hits on everything that moves has absolutely no interest in you."

"It doesn't bother me in the slightest," said Nellie. "Frankly, if Hawkeye ever hit on _me_, I'd probably laugh in his face. But, uhh," she added hastily, as she caught Kellye's annoyed look, "that's just my personal opinion. I don't really go for men with Peter Pan Syndrome, and Hawkeye is _definitely_ one of those guys who refuses to grow up." She cleared her throat awkwardly. "Not that... that I know Hawkeye as well as you do... I'll just shut up, shall I?"

Kellye sighed. "No, you're right," she said in resignation. "Hawkeye may be a charmer, but he's just a big kid." Not that it would keep her from admiring him from a distance. "Anyway, enough about him. You know what I think? I think we should cut your hair."

Nellie's eyes grew as wide as saucers. "_What?_" she asked in disbelief.

"Sure! I could do it myself. It would be a lot easier to manage. You wouldn't go through shampoo _nearly_ as quickly. And anyway, I think it would suit you. I'm thinking... somewhere around shoulder-length? Maybe a little shorter?"

The redhead gaped at her. "You're serious, aren't you?" Kellye simply nodded. "I haven't had my hair cut in six years!"

Kellye's lips twitched as she tried not to smile. "It shows."

"I happen to resent that remark—"

Kellye shushed her. "Look, I know it's scary to think about it. When I was in high school, my hair was all the way down to my waist. I didn't know what to do with it, so I just stuck it in a ponytail all the time. That is, until the boy I liked started calling me 'Flying Ebony'." At Nellie's bewildered look, she explained, "It was the name of the horse that won the Kentucky Derby in 1925."

"Nice guy."

"Yeah." She chuckled. "Anyway, it was his teasing that made me decide to get all my hair chopped off. A dumb reason to do it, I know, but it was the most liberating experience of my life. I felt like a whole new person. I even thanked him for it. Right before I told him to stick his head in a chum bucket."

Nellie laughed. "Crude, but I like it." She chewed her lip in thought for a moment. "I know you're trying to tell me I won't regret it, but what if I do? And how do I know I won't end up looking like the bride of Frankenstein?"

"You won't if you set your curls the way I told you to." She could see the girl still wasn't convinced. "I've always thought you'd look a lot like Myrna Loy, if you had short hair." She paused. "And if you styled it. And put on makeup. And plucked your eyebrows for once in your life." She frowned. "What the heck did you do with all the makeup we gave you, anyway?"

Nellie glared at her. "Pardon me if I never had any female relatives to teach me any of that nonsense," she said, crossing her arms defensively. "My mother died when I was nine, and both of my grandmothers followed a few years later. I guess there's always my uncle's wife Gloria, but even Max would find her taste in clothing gaudy and over-the-top." She shuddered. "Frankly, she scares the bejesus out of me."

"Trust me, you'll look adorable," Kellye assured her. "When we're all through, Klinger will be kicking _himself_ in the shins for letting you go."

The girl stared up at her, her brow furrowed in deliberation. Finally she unfolded her arms and stood up.

"Let's do it."

* * *

Nellie was ready to punch someone's lights out.

Kellye had ordered her to go to the shower to wet her hair, and while she was occupied, her tentmate had gone and informed her _other_ two tentmates that she was giving her a "makeover". She'd returned to her tent to find herself on the wrong end of an ambush. Any attempts to escape would have been futile, because Nagel and Clark had grabbed her by each arm and forcibly shoved her into a chair, while Kellye wielded a gleaming pair of scissors, the sight of which had struck fear into the very core of her being.

No. There would be no escape.

As a result, she had been experimented on for hours. Her nails had been buffed to a high shine, her eyebrows waxed (sweet _Lord_, that was painful!), her hair cut to just above her shoulders, her face powdered and painted, and worst of all, she hadn't been allowed to see herself even once. Her glasses had been tucked away in Lori Nagel's brassiere, and Nellie was too much of a prude to attempt to retrieve them.

She would make Kellye pay for this if it was the last thing she ever did.

As she had told her diabolical friend, she'd never had any positive female role models to show her how to look after her physical appearance, and so she had never bothered. It simply seemed like too much trouble, and now she knew she had been right all along. But she supposed if Major Houlihan was able to find the time in her busy schedule to look gorgeous, then perhaps she could put forth a little more effort. Maybe. If it turned out to be worth it.

Who was she kidding? The "stuffy schoolmarm" look was _so_ much easier.

"I feel compelled to point out," she said as Maddie Clark pulled her hair back out of her face with the set of jade-and-silver combs that Hawkeye and B.J. had gotten her for Christmas, "that aside from a pair of very worn flannel pajamas and a kimono from Max that I _really_ don't feel like wearing, I have literally no civilian clothing. And I'm fairly certain that it's far too cold to wear either, anyway."

Nagel waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry, I've got a footlocker full of clothes. And we're almost the same size. You're a little shorter than me, but that won't matter if you wear a dress. And if it's too long, we can just raise the hem with some tape."

"Tape?" Nellie repeated dubiously.

"Trust me. Women have been doing it for decades."

Nellie snorted. "The last time somebody said 'Trust me', I was taken hostage by a pack of deranged would-be beauticians," she muttered.

"Oh, stop whining," said Kellye. "You look amazing. Girls, didn't I tell you she looked like Myrna Loy?"

"That's enough out of you," Nellie told her. "No amount of false flattery is going to stop me from killing you."

"No, she's right," said Clark. "From _The Thin Man_. I love those movies. I used to have such a crush on William Powell when I was a teenager. And I usually hate mustaches."

Nagel groaned. "Ugh, so do I." Suddenly she brightened. "Hey, since we're already giving people makeovers, we should hold down Captain Hunnicutt and shave off his face fungus."

Nellie stared incredulously at her blurry form. "Wow, you guys are really asking for it today."

At last, when Nellie was certain she could endure no more, the nurses stepped back to admire their handiwork. They seemed pleased. Perhaps "ecstatic" would have been a more fitting adjective.

"Klinger is going to _die_," said Nagel matter-of-factly.

"I don't want him to die," Nellie said, frustrated. "In fact, I changed my mind about this whole thing. I don't wish any ill on him whatsoever. I just..." She sighed. "I want to be _over_ him."

"Well, I don't know about that," said Kellye with an enigmatic smile, placing a hand mirror in her lap. "But after tonight, you might just have your pick of any man in this camp."

Frowning in confusion, Nellie picked up the mirror. Taking a deep breath, she lifted it to her face, not knowing what to expect.

What she expected wasn't _this._

"Holy Toledo," she blurted.

On second thought, this might just be worth the extra effort, after all.

* * *

Charles had always been an excellent debater. He had been the head of his debate team both at Choate and Harvard, and with good reason. Rival teams had never been able to withstand the sheer force of his overwhelming evidence, credible sources, and irrefutable logic — not to mention his rapier wit and devilish charm. Opposing forces had quailed at the mere sight of him.

The down side of all this, of course, was that he was very good at arguing with himself.

He was currently debating whether or not to attend this preposterous civilian party. On the one hand, Colonel Potter had made it all too clear that attendance was mandatory. However, was not the act of forcing a person to go to a supposedly morale-boosting function when said person had no desire to go, in fact, detrimental to morale? Surely the colonel couldn't refute that. Besides, what would he do to Charles if he _did_ decide not to attend? Send him to bed without supper?

On the other hand, it might not be as intolerable as he was imagining it to be. Malone would undoubtedly be there, after all. They could always retreat to a quiet corner of the mess tent and play a game or two of Go. Ever since her inconveniently feminine outburst in the supply shed, Malone had sought out his company more than usual — of which he was irrationally proud. Though he would never admit it aloud, Hunnicutt's remark about Charles's regarding her as his pet still stung to some degree, and the fact that she derived enjoyment from their friendship was immensely gratifying to him.

His _pet._ How utterly ridiculous. He and Malone were intellectual equals... more or less.

He sighed, casting a glance at his footlocker, which he kept locked at all times — not that it did him any good.

Perhaps he could find something to wear to that silly party.

As he rifled through his things, he tried to ignore Pierce and Hunnicutt, who were putting the finishing touches on their own ensembles. Pierce was wearing his father's wrinkled tuxedo, while Hunnicutt had opted in favor of a truly horrendous checked suit, with a white fedora to top it off. Apparently neither of them were very eager to win that trip to Seoul.

"I hope Margaret's planning on wearing that little slinky number she wore to the Halloween party," Pierce was saying as he donned a particularly hideous pair of cuff links. "You know the one. With the Mandarin collar and the slit that went all the way up to... well, to the Mandarin collar."

"Pierce," said Charles in a supremely bored tone, "do cease salivating all over the Swamp, before it freezes and causes someone to slip and fracture a limb."

"What's the matter, Chuck?" asked B.J., pulling his turquoise tie into an untidy half-Windsor. "Your wicked stepmother won't let you go to the ball?"

"No, no, it's not that," said Pierce. "If he's not back by midnight, his head will turn into a pumpkin."

"In that case, he'd better stay put. He's half-way there already."

Charles easily tuned out their mindless yammering. He had just discovered the only civilian suit he had brought with him to Korea at the bottom of his footlocker, and it was in surprisingly good condition. He'd had it tailored for him in a charming little shop on Savile Row in London. It was a quiet charcoal grey, with a subtle chalk pinstripe. There were a few minor wrinkles here and there, but of course, nobody would be looking closely enough to notice. In fact, by the time he arrived in the mess tent, they would probably all be drunk out of their skulls.

His tie, unfortunately, was hopelessly wrinkled. "Hunnicutt," he said, laying the suit out on his cot, "you wouldn't happen to have any ties that weren't designed by a hyperactive chimpanzee, would you?"

"Ah, what the hell, I'm feeling generous." The blond man tossed him a tie, which Charles inspected narrowly. "Just don't spill any punch on it. Red makes the blood vessels in my eyes stand out."

Thankfully, the tie was a sufficiently subdued shade of maroon. Nothing special, but it would do. "Thank you, Hunnicutt," he said shortly, draping it around his neck.

"Oh, so you _are_ going," said Pierce in surprise. "Well, well. I guess even a Winchester can't resist the temptation of seeing our nurses in their civvies. Speaking of which," he added, eyeing Charles's suit with envy, "those are some natty duds. Too bad they're twelve sizes too big for me."

Charles laughed sardonically. "Oh dear, what a shame. It appears you'll have to attend this particular fancy dress ball as a malnourished penguin."

"Why, I oughta," Pierce growled threateningly, waving his bony fist at him.

Hunnicutt clapped his fedora onto his head. "You coming, Hawk?"

"Yeah, yeah." Pierce followed him out the door of the Swamp. "See you at the prom, Chuckles. I'll save you a space on my dance card."

Charles suppressed a groan. _Dear God, why me?_

With a sigh, he reluctantly donned his suit and borrowed tie, reminding himself that there would, after all, be _some_ civilized company at the party. He realized with some slight surprise that he had never seen Malone in any attire that was not military-issue. He was somewhat curious to find out what she looked like in apparel of her own choice.

He fished around in the space under his cot until he found his wingtips, which he had somehow managed to conceal from his tentmates. Lacing them on his feet, he stood and tucked his Go board under his arm. After taking a deep breath to brace himself, he headed out into the compound.

The sound of swing music drifted toward his ears, which told him that the jukebox had been taken out of the Officers' Club and hauled into the mess tent for the occasion. How wonderful. Now on top of everything else, he wouldn't be able to hear himself think.

As Charles pulled open the door to the mess tent, a rush of warm air enveloped him. Someone had had the very shrewd idea to bring in some extra space heaters, which was fortunate for the many members of the nursing staff who were currently wearing sleeveless dresses. He had to admit, they did clean up rather well. However, he didn't see Malone anywhere.

As he stepped inside, he was greeted by a very unexpected chorus of whistles and cat calls from the female officers. "What on earth—" he began in bewilderment.

Margaret came up to him, wearing a very risqué, low-cut dress of a lurid shade of red. "Why, Charles," she said, eyeing his suit appreciatively. "Don't you look handsome?"

"Er, thank you," he said distractedly. "Has Lieutenant Malone arrived yet?"

"Malone?" She raised her eyebrows. "No, not yet. Kellye said they weren't finished with her. Whatever that means." She cleared her throat pointedly. "Aren't you going to say anything about my dress?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, yes, very nice," said Charles, waving his hand impatiently. "Please excuse me."

Leaving Margaret to gape openly after him, he meandered over to a table in the corner and set down his Go board. Perhaps he could practice his strategy until Malone arrived. Lately she had developed this diabolical little habit of forcing him into a corner of the board and devouring the remaining territory. It wasn't as if she were any better than him; it was simply that he tended to go easy on her, and it usually ended up backfiring and—

"Well, how do, Major?" said a voice above him. He craned his neck to see Colonel Potter standing over him in a dark brown suit with alarmingly wide lapels. Beside him was Klinger, wearing his Mud Hens jersey with a pair of slacks and black-and-white Oxfords. Both were holding glasses of punch.

Charles started slightly when he saw that Potter was wearing cowboy boots. Well, of course he was. Why wouldn't he be?

"That's a real snazzy suit you've got there," said Potter. "Woolworth's?"

Charles shuddered. "Uh, no, thank God," he replied. "I had it custom-tailored in London."

Klinger whistled. "Must have cost you a pretty penny."

_More than you've ever seen in your life,_ he almost said, when the words died on his lips. At that moment, the door to the mess tent had suddenly swung open, and Fenella Malone was shoved unceremoniously inside, followed by Kellye and two other nurses. Abruptly he forgot what he was going to say.

More accurately, he forgot how to breathe.

She was wearing a strapless, midnight blue dress with a full skirt which reached a little past her knees, along with a pair of white heels. Her red hair was in short, tight, bouncy curls, pulled back with silver combs. Her glasses were gone, and her makeup was tastefully done — not enough to look cheap or bawdy, but just enough to bring out her eyes and lips. As she stepped reluctantly forward, he realized that the mess tent had grown so quiet that he could actually hear the rustle of crinoline as she walked.

There was no escaping it. She was a vision.

Distantly, he heard Klinger make a strangled noise. "You have got to be kidding," he muttered.

Charles felt himself jostled from behind, and it was only then that he realized he had gotten to his feet. Pierce was shoving him roughly out of the way, and being none too subtle about it. "Move it or lose it, Chuckles," he said decisively, sidling around him to get to Malone.

Charles watched with mounting trepidation as the chief surgeon took the redhead's hand and raised it to his lips. "Hi there, Nora," he said with a rakish grin. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Nick."

Malone snorted a laugh. Well, at least _that_ hadn't changed. "Sorry, Hawkeye, but you're no William Powell," she replied.

Suddenly Potter chuckled, elbowing Charles in the ribs. "Oh, I get it," he said, a little slow to catch on. "She looks like Myrna Loy."

"I told you!" exclaimed Nurse Kellye.

Hunnicutt came over to join them. "Hey, Red," he said genially. "You look pretty as a picture."

She smiled. "Thank you, talking mustachioed blur."

"Who's got Nellie's glasses?" Kellye asked. Lieutenant Nagel retrieved the girl's spectacles from a rather personal part of her person and handed them over. "Here you go, Nell."

She placed them on her face with a sigh of relief. "Oh, goodness," she exclaimed, finally able to take in her surroundings. "Everyone looks so nice."

"Yes, they certainly do," said Pierce, in a tone that Charles wasn't sure he liked at all.

"Why, Nellie!" Charles turned to see Father Mulcahy wearing, perhaps unsurprisingly, his Loyola sweatshirt. "Don't you look lovely?" he said, beaming. "That haircut suits you very well."

"Thank you, Father," she said graciously. "It was a bit terrifying at first, but I think I'm getting used to it."

To Charles's mingled pleasure and inexplicable unease, the girl spotted him and came over with a smile. "Hello, Charles," she greeted him amiably. "Colonel." She turned and gave Klinger a little wave. "Hi, Max."

The corporal appeared at a loss for words; apparently, there was a first time for everything. "Uhh... Wow, Nellie," he managed to reply weakly. "Just... _Wow._"

Malone gave an awkward chuckle. "I'll take that as a sign of approval," she said in a low voice.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. Definitely." Klinger cleared his throat and gazed down at his empty glass. "Oh, hey, look at that. I'm all out of punch. I think I'll just... Yeah."

As the clerk hastily made his way toward the refreshment table, Malone sighed, her brow creased in worry. "Whoops," she muttered, looking down at her feet. "I was afraid he might not react so well to... to all _this._" She ruffled her voluminous skirts for emphasis. "Frankly, it wasn't my idea to begin with, but Kellye is an unstoppable force of nature when she wants to be."

Charles was barely listening. As stunning as the dress was, he found he simply could not stop staring at her white, freckled shoulders and her slender, elegant neck. The words of dozens of classical poets swirled around in the back of his mind as he looked at her, and he spoke the first ones that sprang to his lips.

"Thy beauty hangs around thee like splendour around the moon," he murmured, almost to himself.

Malone blinked up at him in surprise, blushing slightly. "Charles, that's lovely," she said. "Shelley?"

"I... Yes, I think so." He honestly couldn't remember.

She smiled, and his pulse increased considerably. "Thank you, Charles." She plucked at his sleeve. "I hope I'm not being too impertinent when I say you're looking quite dashing, as well. In fact, you'll probably win that trip to Seoul."

Charles laughed, rather weakly. "Somehow I doubt that." What was the matter with him?

Malone saw his Go board on the table in the corner, and her eyes lit up in delight. "Oh, good, you brought it!" she exclaimed. "I was worried that we'd have absolutely nothing to do. I'm lousy at mingling, and even lousier at dancing." She clapped her hands. "Which do you want to be, black or white?"

Her enthusiasm was contagious. "Ladies' choice," he said with a magnanimous smile.

With another grin, she went over and sat down at the table. Beside him, Colonel Potter chuckled, causing Charles to jump slightly in surprise. He had forgotten that the older man was still standing there.

"She ain't a bad addition to our little band of amigos, is she?" asked Potter.

Charles gazed at the young woman, who was contemplating where to place her first piece on the board. As she fussed with her newly shorn hair, carefully pushing a stray curl back into place, he felt a sudden swelling of emotion.

"No, she certainly ain't," he said feelingly.

* * *

A/N: All right, everyone, say it with me: _Uhh-ohhh!_

Yeah, anyway. Sorry this episode — _chapter!_ Dang it, now you've got me saying it! — took a little longer for me to finish than some of the previous ones. You'll see I've made up for it by making it ridiculously long. Liked it? Hated it? Either way, let me know. The review button's down at the bottom of the page.

Oh! I have to tell you guys something that I found pretty hilarious. Last weekend I was at my mom's house, and I started correcting her grammar without even realizing it. Her response to me was, "Thank you, Charles." I nearly died laughing. Anyway, that's all. Do review, if you please.

-Octopus


	15. You Different Men Are All Alike

A/N: Thank you, as always, my faithful readers, for your kind reviews. This chapter gave me some trouble, due to the fact that my computer got a lovely little virus called the XP Security 2011 virus. It pretended to be my _own_ antivirus software, and wouldn't let me run _any_ other programs, including any word processing programs. Good times. (Who comes up with this stuff, by the way? Could people get any more evil?) However, I managed to get rid of it, and was able to write this chapter. So, at long last, here's chapter fifteen.

Oh, and this is going to be a long one. I'm not kidding. You'd best get comfy.

Disclaimer: _M*A*S*H_ and its wonderful cast of characters is property of Twentieth Century Fox. Anyone you don't remember from the show is mine.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Fifteen: You Different Men Are All Alike

Maxwell Klinger was, for lack of a better term, on the warpath.

Among other annoyances, the mail had been delayed yet again, and the entire camp, as was the general custom under these circumstances, was blaming him for the hiatus. Predictably, Major Houlihan had taken out her frustration on his person. It was taking forever for the marks from her fingernails to fade from his shoulders.

He had also been infuriated to learn that the telephone operator, Sergeant "Sparky" Pryor, his friend and frequent co-conspirator whenever he had to procure medical supplies by less than honest methods, had made a little arrangement with the supply sergeant at the 121st Evac, _without_ Klinger's knowledge or permission. In exchange for two dozen blankets, the 4077th would provide the supply sergeant with a case of twelve-year-old scotch, which was one more case than the 4077th actually possessed. He had no idea where he was going to get a case of scotch, but the patients in Post-Op needed those blankets, and there was no way he was going to let them freeze. Not on his watch.

It went without saying that Sparky was now officially on his list. Along with Zelmo Zale, his ex-wife Laverne, his ex-best friend Gus Nagy, and the members of his draft board. Now every time he had to place a call, the sound of Sparky's stupid voice on the other end of the line was just an unwelcome reminder of his current dilemma.

Normally, he would distract himself from his problems by spending some time with Nellie. Just seeing her always seemed to lighten his mood. But now, he couldn't even bring himself to do that.

Especially now that she'd gone and made herself all gorgeous.

Of course, Klinger had always thought she was cute as a button. But she had disguised it with her lack of cosmetic embellishments; and, of course, by being bookish and somewhat socially inept. Now, however, she'd taken to fixing her hair and wearing makeup — actual _makeup_ — and the end product was downright fantastic. Suddenly, her appeal was evident for all to see, and Klinger couldn't stand the way all the corpsmen gawked at her. They were shameless. It made him sick.

What irked him the most was that they had never bothered to get to know Nellie before, when she was still her sweet, slightly frazzled self, with her cloud of wild red hair and her freckles and her goofy lop-sided smile. They had never bothered to find out what Klinger had always known: that any guy would be lucky to have her.

And, idiot that he was, he had let her go.

He knew it was for the best. There was no denying that. But that didn't mean he wasn't kicking himself for it. And now every time he saw her, he was reminded of exactly what he had given up. If he didn't know better, he would have suspected that she'd done it on purpose, just to make him suffer. But she would never do that.

...Would she?

He sighed to himself as he sat at the bar in the Officers' Club, staring into his empty glass and wondering how he could have finished it off without realizing it. He pushed the glass toward Private Straminsky and rapped his knuckles on the bar counter.

"Give me another, Igor," he muttered.

Straminsky raised his eyebrows at Klinger's brusque tone. "What's the magic word?"

"_Now_," he said with a glare.

The private shook his head as he refilled his glass. "Somebody got up on the wrong side of the war this morning," he remarked. He slid the drink in front of Klinger. "One rye whiskey, neat. You want a salute with that, _sir?_"

The clerk ignored him, and Straminksy shrugged and went back to drying glasses. At the piano, Father Mulcahy was playing "I Was Doing All Right", and Klinger couldn't help thinking how ironically appropriate the song choice was, given his current predicament. As he sipped at his drink, he tried to think about something besides Nellie. But even as he did so, his rebellious mind inevitably drifted back to the real trouble at hand: namely, how on earth he was supposed to obtain that damned case of scotch.

_Last time I ever trust Sparky to make a deal without me,_ he thought moodily.

The door of the Officers' Club swung open, interrupting Klinger's broodings. He turned toward the sound, and nearly groaned when he saw who it was. Of course, it was Nellie, accompanied by her best buddy, Major Winchester.

His irritation suddenly increased at the sight of them together. He knew that deep down, so deep down that you almost needed a microscope to find it, Winchester was a pretty nice guy. And he supposed he was glad that Nellie had found a friend in him. But Klinger had always been secretly resentful of their peculiar bond. More than once, when he and Nellie had been dating, he had found himself growing annoyed at the way she and Winchester always talked over his head about all that high-brow stuff they both loved so much. It was like they were part of an elite club which consisted of only two members, and Klinger wasn't allowed to join.

He knew it was a childish way to feel. He also couldn't help himself.

While Winchester drifted over to his usual corner table, Nellie stepped up to the bar with her perfectly painted lips and carefully coifed curls and gave Klinger a smile. "Hi, Max," she said pleasantly.

He nodded minutely, trying his best to appear detached and indifferent. "Nellie," he said simply.

She frowned slightly, but didn't comment on his terse greeting. Instead, she waved at Straminsky to get his attention. The private's usually morose face lit up as he came over. "Hello, Igor," she said. "How's business tonight?"

"A whole lot better now you're here, Lieutenant," he replied with a syrupy-sweet smile. Klinger rolled his eyes. _Shameless. Absolutely shameless._

It was a testament to Nellie's inexperience with men that she failed utterly to recognize Straminsky's blatant flirting for what it was. She just laughed. "I highly doubt that," she said dryly. "Do you think I could trouble you for a beer?"

"No trouble at all." He uncapped a bottle and set it in front of her. "On the house."

Klinger gaped at him in surprise; the man _never_ offered complimentary drinks. He saw his own disbelief reflected on Nellie's face. "Don't be ridiculous, Igor," she said firmly. "I can buy my own drinks."

"No, no, I insist," the private pressed, patting her hand. "Consider it a congratulatory gift. You know, for winning the trip to Seoul."

As Klinger watched, the crooked smile slowly returned to her face. "Well," she said reluctantly, "I suppose I can relent, just this once. But as a rule, I don't approve of special treatment. You'd do well to keep that in mind, Private."

"I'll do my best, ma'am," Straminsky replied with a wink.

Klinger felt like throwing up.

Shaking her head, Nellie turned and cast another smile at him. "So, Max," she said conversationally, "do you think we can expect some new movies any time soon?"

He shrugged carelessly. "How should I know?" he said. "That has nothing to do with me. We just get sent all the stuff that H.Q. has gotten sick of watching."

"Oh." She cleared her throat awkwardly, turning her beer in a circle on the bar counter. "Well, that's all right. We've gotten some good ones, at any rate. Even the silent films are better than I thought they'd be. You know, my dad _adored_ Buster Keaton. Now I can see why. Did you know that he did all of his own stunts, and—"

"No, I didn't know that," he cut in. "I'll bet Major Winchester would love to hear all about it. Why don't you go tell him?"

She blinked at him through her glasses, clearly taken aback. "Max, are you all right?" she asked, frowning in concern.

"I'm fine," he said flatly. "Just peachy."

"But you seem upset. Do you want to talk about it?"

Klinger sighed irritably. Why couldn't she just leave him alone? "No, Nellie," he said through his teeth. "I do not want to talk about it."

She stared at him for a long moment. "All right," she said in a low voice. "I can take a hint."

He felt an unpleasant tightness in his chest as she picked up her beer and stepped back from the bar. "See you later, Max," she said quietly.

As he watched her drift over and sit down across from Winchester, he felt a sharp pang of remorse. This was followed by an even sharper pang as he suddenly felt himself being smacked on the back of the head.

"Hey!" He whirled around to meet his assailant, fully prepared to give whoever it was a piece of his mind. He stopped short to find Kealani Kellye glaring angrily up at him, her hands fisted on her hips.

"What was that for?" he asked, rubbing the back of his head.

"What the heck is wrong with you?" she demanded, answering his question with one of her own.

Klinger was in no mood for games, especially with Kellye. After all, she had been the true instigator behind Nellie's makeover. Really, it was all her fault. "What are you _talking_ about?" he asked, annoyed.

Kellye leaned in close to him, her voice low and accusing. "I saw the way you treated Nellie just now," she hissed. "Boy, you're a real piece of work, Klinger. First you break her heart, then you act like the whole thing was her fault. Don't you have any shame at all?"

"I..." He paused. His brain was a little fuzzy from the alcohol, and it took a while for her words to sink in. "Wait, hang on. What do you mean, I broke her heart? It wasn't like that. She was fine with the way things ended. She told me so."

The Hawaiian nurse rolled her eyes. "Well, of _course_ she told you she was fine," she said very slowly, as if she were trying to reason with a particularly slow-witted child. "She didn't want you to worry about her. And she sure as hell didn't want you to know how devastated she was. The truth is, she cried her eyes out over you."

Klinger swallowed, the tightness in his chest increasing considerably. "She did?" he asked weakly.

"She broke down right in front of Major Winchester." Kellye shook her head in commiseration. "The poor guy. He had no idea what to do with her."

He gazed across the Officers' Club at Nellie, engaged in conversation with the major. No wonder they had seemed closer than usual lately. Suddenly he felt like the world's biggest jerk. "I didn't know," he said, his throat tight. "Honestly, Kellye. I really didn't."

Kellye regarded him for a moment, and her glare softened. "Yeah, I can see that," she replied at last. "Look, she made me swear I wouldn't tell anybody, so don't mention anything about this to her. Just... apologize. All right?"

He sighed. "Yeah. I will. Don't worry."

She patted him on the back, evidently placated by his penitence. He drained his glass and set it down, gathering his nerve. Taking a deep breath, he slid off his stool and started to move toward the table in the corner, where Nellie and Winchester were sitting.

Only it wasn't occupied by Nellie and Winchester anymore.

The major had gotten up to speak with Father Mulcahy, no doubt to request a different song. When he saw who had taken his chair, Klinger's blood began to boil. It was Private Vince Crosetti, the lousy bum. He had a reputation in the camp for being notoriously chauvinistic, unfailingly crass, and almost constantly inebriated. And tonight seemed to be no exception. He had pulled up his chair beside the red-haired nurse and was sitting entirely too close to be considered proper.

Nellie was obviously trying her best to be polite, but Klinger was in a less diplomatic frame of mind. In fact, as he stood there, watching as Crosetti leaned in close to Nellie and whispered something that made her eyes widen in shock, something in him suddenly snapped.

He'd been naive to think that he could end their relationship without hurting her. But he'd be damned if he was going to let anyone else hurt her, ever again.

His feet moving almost of their own accord, he strode up to the corner table and tapped Crosetti hard on the shoulder. The private looked up in mild surprise, his eyes glazed over from too much booze. "Take a hike, Crosetti," he told him. "The lady's not interested."

Nellie raised her eyebrows. "You _do_ know I'm perfectly capable of speaking for myself, Max," she said, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Yeah, _Max_," slurred Crosetti, a smug smile plastered on his face. "You had your chance with her. Now she wants to spend some time with a _real_ man."

"Actually," she put in, her nose wrinkled in distaste, "if you're what constitutes a 'real man', I'd really rather not."

Klinger glared down at the private, who didn't seem the least bothered by her rebuff. "You heard her, Crosetti. Get lost."

Crosetti pushed back his chair and stood up, swaying unsteadily on his feet. "You gonna make me?" he asked with a sneer.

"If I have to," Klinger growled.

"This is not happening, this is _not_ happening," Nellie kept saying under her breath, her hand pressed to her forehead.

Without warning, Crosetti took a swing at him. Klinger ducked, easily avoiding it; fortunately for him, he was a good several inches shorter than his opponent. While the private tried to recover his balance, compromised by the alcohol in his bloodstream, Klinger stepped in, every bit of his anger and righteous indignation channeled into his fist, and delivered a hard right hook to his jaw. Crosetti went down like a bag of bricks.

Winchester had suddenly appeared behind him. Judging from the look on his face, he was obviously taken aback by what had transpired in his absence. "Klinger," he said, staring down at the man on the floor, "have you lost what little remains of your mind?"

"Damn it!" Straminsky moved out from behind the bar and advanced angrily toward him on his long, skinny legs, looking like some kind of murderous praying mantis. "That's _it_, Klinger. You've been asking for it all night. Now get out of here and cool off, or I'll call the M.P.s and have you thrown out. Don't think I won't do it."

His chest heaving, Klinger looked from Straminsky to Winchester, then over at Kellye. She just shook her head, her expression a mixture of disgust and disappointment.

His gaze landed on Nellie. She was on her feet now, as well, glaring at him over her spectacles. If looks could kill, he'd be dead twice over.

"I'll save you the trouble," he muttered to Straminsky.

Pushing past Winchester, he slammed down the money for his drinks on the counter and stalked out of the club.

As he stepped out into the cold night air, he tore off his hat and shoved his hands through his hair. He felt like he couldn't breathe. What the hell had come over him? He hadn't gotten in any brawls since Frank Burns had set up that fight between him and Zale, and even that had been staged to teach old Ferret Face a lesson. What had made him lose control like that?

He had a feeling he already knew. _Get a hold of yourself, Max,_ he told himself harshly. There were always other girls.

_But none like her,_ his traitorous mind whispered.

He heard the door of the Officers' Club open and slam shut behind him. Something told him he should make himself scarce before things got even uglier. But as he moved to leave, a low, irate voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Maxwell Qasim Klinger, don't you take another step!"

He swallowed nervously. He _knew_ he never should have told Nellie his middle name.

Turning slowly, he watched as his erstwhile sweetheart came toward him, her hands clenched at her sides. With her flaming red hair and her breath rising from her nostrils in little puffs of steam, she reminded him of an incensed dragon. "What in the name of all that's holy has gotten into you, Max?" she demanded. "I've never seen you like this. I feel like I don't even know you anymore!"

Klinger returned her gaze, taking in her makeup and her short, saucy curls, and couldn't quite hold back a sour laugh. "Boy, you're one to talk," he said bitterly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He shook his head. What was the point of arguing? It never accomplished anything. It only made things worse. All of a sudden he felt very tired.

"Okay, fine," he said wearily. "You want to know what's bothering me?" She stared at him expectantly, her arms folded. "Everything," he blurted. "_Everything_ is bothering me. This place, these people, this war. _Everything._"

Suddenly he was giving vent to all of his pent-up stress and frustration, and he didn't even care that he was aiming it all at Nellie. "You know what it's like being me? I'll tell you what it's like. Imagine getting blamed for every single thing that goes wrong in this camp. The mail gets delayed, it's your fault. The bandages run out, or the plaster, or even the hot water in the showers, it's your fault. Enemy shelling knocks out the telephone line, guess what? It's _your fault._" He shook his head. "I've thought about deserting so many times, I've lost count. But I would never do it. Because this place would fall apart without me. And everyone knows it. So why don't they ever _say_ it?"

He gave a cynical laugh, and it sounded harsh in his own ears. "You know what I'm dealing with right now? Thanks to that bonehead Sparky, I've got a supply sergeant at the 121st Evac sitting on two dozen blankets for our patients. Only he won't give them up until I give _him_ a case of twelve-year-old scotch." He spread his hands in a futile gesture. "What do I look like, a liquor store? Where the hell am I going to get a case of scotch? But I can't tell Sparky that, because he'll tell the sergeant that I'm backing out of the deal. And I can't back out, because we need those blankets."

He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "The truth is, I don't have the first clue what to do. And I would have told you a long time ago, because I know you would have listened. But I couldn't. I..." He swallowed. "I can't tell you anything, Nellie. Things just aren't the same between us. And now that you're all dolled up like some Hollywood starlet, getting free drinks and trips to Seoul, and having all the guys throwing themselves at you, I... I feel like I don't know _you_ anymore."

Nellie had remained silent during his tirade. Now she opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It seemed she was at a loss. "I... didn't mean to hurt you, Max," she finally said quietly.

Klinger took a deep, shaky breath. His outburst had left him feeling drained. "Well, you did," he said flatly. "It's bad enough that I gave up the best thing that ever happened to me. But now it's like... like you're rubbing it in my face."

She blinked slowly, trying to process this information. "Max, I... I'm sorry. Honestly, it was never my intent to cause you pain. You've got to believe that. I mean, it's true that I was upset when you ended things between us, but I understood why. I just..." She shrugged helplessly. "I was feeling sorry for myself, and I thought that a change might do me good. That's all."

"Yeah, well..." Klinger shook his head, still feeling raw. "You should have thought about how it would make me feel."

He knew it was the wrong thing to say, and Nellie's icy silence confirmed it. "I wasn't aware that I needed to ask for your permission," she said at last.

Klinger sighed wearily. "That's not what I said."

"But that's what you meant." She gazed at him for a long moment, then shook her head. Unfolding her arms, she stepped forward, stopping mere inches from him and looking him directly in the eye. "Look, Max," she said in a low voice. "I don't need your approval. But I'd have thought that by now, I would have earned your respect."

Without another word, she slid past him and walked away.

He lowered his head into his hands.

She left for Seoul the next day. He couldn't bring himself to see her off; he was too ashamed. Then again, she wouldn't have wanted to see him anyway.

Every time he thought about her, he felt sick. More than once, he thought about calling her at her hotel, but he couldn't do that, either. As much as it hurt him to admit it, he had to face facts. He had blown it. Nellie was the nicest girl he had ever known — not to mention one of the best friends he'd ever had — and he had completely blown it.

He hardly left his office during that entire weekend, and not just because he dreaded what Private Crosetti would do to him if he spotted him again; assuming, of course, he remembered the incident at all. The truth was, he didn't want to see anyone.

So he stayed behind his desk, filling out reports and answering the telephone, praying each time it rang that it wasn't Sparky asking about the scotch. Hawkeye and B.J. tried to cheer him up, mistakenly assuming that he was missing Nellie, but not knowing the reason why. Colonel Potter was much nicer than usual to him. Even Winchester, who was usually barely civil to him, went out of his way to bring him a cup of coffee. It almost seemed like the major knew more than he was letting on, but before Klinger could ask him, he was already gone.

At least there were no casualties. He wasn't sure he could face a whole post-operative ward full of soldiers who didn't have any blankets.

On Sunday morning, he was busy filling out a requisition form for _more_ requisition forms, when he heard the crunch of Jeep tires in the compound outside. He frowned up at the clock: only half past nine. There was no way it could be Nellie; with the roads as bad as they were, she would've had to leave from Seoul at the crack of dawn, and no one in their right mind would do that. And if there were casualties, then it would have been announced over the P.A. system.

They weren't expecting anyone else. Who could it be?

Klinger pushed back his chair and stood up, wincing as his aching muscles protested from sitting for too long. He moved to the door, and suddenly pinwheeled backward as it swung open without warning, nearly hitting him in the face.

"It's all right, Sergeant, I've already got my bag right here," Nellie was calling over her shoulder as she strode briskly into the office in her Class A uniform, lugging her suitcase behind her. "Just bring that crate in here, would you?"

Klinger watched, bewildered, as Luther Rizzo followed her into the little office, carrying a large wooden crate in his arms and doing his best to pretend it wasn't heavy. "All right, little lady, where do you want it?" he asked, his thick Cajun drawl made even more unintelligible by his exertions — and by the cigar in his mouth.

"Over by the desk is fine. Just be careful with it." Nellie stood safely to one side as the sergeant set down the crate, huffing and heaving. "Thank you, Rizzo. You can go back to your nap."

Rizzo touched the bill of his hat. "Just happy to be of he'p to you, _chérie_," he said with a smile, before strolling out of the office.

Nellie put down her suitcase, stretching her arms and smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. "Hello, Max," she said evenly after a moment.

He blinked at her, somewhat at a loss. "Hello, Nellie," he managed to reply. He hesitated, before adding, "You're back early."

"I know," she said shortly, taking off her hat. "Would you do me a favor, Max? Open that crate for me. I want to make sure they gave me what I asked for."

Nonplussed, Klinger went over and bent down next to the crate. It had obviously been opened already. He wasn't sure where she was going with this. Nevertheless, he did as he was bidden and removed the lid. And stared.

Inside were ten bottles of Glenlivet twelve-year-old single malt scotch whiskey.

Sudden, inconvenient tears pricked his eyes.

"I hope it's a good brand," Nellie was saying as he fought to regain his composure. "I'm not exactly a connoisseur when it comes to scotch. For all I know, it's probably pure swill."

"Trust me, it's not," he said tightly as he got to his feet. He cleared his throat. "How much did you pay for this?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Doesn't matter."

Klinger shook his head. "Nellie, you shouldn't have done this," he told her. "I would have come up with a plan sooner or later. Somehow. I don't know, I—"

"Damn it, Max," she suddenly erupted, cutting him off. He regarded her with wide eyes. "I'm not destitute. And even if I was, so what? It's for a good cause. Our patients need those blankets."

He sighed. "Nellie..."

She groaned in frustration. "God, would you just... shut up and let me do this one thing for you?" she almost pleaded. "Can you do that, Max?"

Klinger stared at her for a long moment, and she silently returned his gaze. Then he stepped forward and pulled her into a tight hug.

She clung to him fiercely, burying her face in his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice thick. "I'm sorry for being such a lousy friend. I promised I'd always treat you right, and I've been a total jerk."

"Yes, you have," she replied frankly, and he gave a humorless laugh. "But I forgive you anyway." He squeezed her gratefully. "I missed you, you big dummy," she added fondly, reaching up and tousling his hair.

"I missed you, too. And of _course_ I respect you, Nell. I can't believe how stupid I've been."

She sighed against him. "I haven't exactly been the soul of tact myself," she said. "I'm sorry, Max. I should have considered your feelings."

He shook his head firmly, holding her away from him. "No. Don't apologize. If you're happy, then that's all that matters."

Nellie smiled her silly crooked smile. "I _am_ happy... now." He leaned in and gave her a peck on the forehead. "So be honest," she said, gesturing to her recently hacked-off hair. "Do you like it at all?"

Klinger laughed. "Kid, you look like a million bucks. A million and _one_." She chuckled. "But like I said," he added, "you've _always_ been a knock-out."

* * *

Lieutenant Malone, Hawkeye had decided after careful deliberation as well as plenty of surreptitious scrutiny, was a knock-out.

He didn't know why he had never seen it before. Well, no, that wasn't quite true. He knew exactly why. She'd been hiding. Hiding in plain sight all this time, but under a cleverly constructed façade of mousiness. It was really rather diabolical, when you got right down to it.

She was gorgeous. There was no getting around it. Finally, he saw what Klinger had been raving about ever since she first arrived at the 4077th. It really was amazing what a new hairdo and a little makeup could accomplish. And people said there were no more miracles.

He couldn't tear his gaze away from her. More and more frequently, he found himself admiring her pert little figure, or her small, full lips, or her big green eyes, which were magnified even further by her glasses. Every time they were both in the same room, his eyes unfailingly wandered over to her immediate vicinity. Which, he had to admit, wasn't always a good thing. Especially during surgery. In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on resecting someone's bowel when he couldn't stop wondering what it would be like to get a certain little red-haired nurse alone for the night.

It also probably wasn't a good idea to think about her while playing darts with B.J.

As Hawkeye's turn came up to take aim, Rosie, the proprietress of his favorite bar in all of Korea, passed by with a tray of drinks. She let out a startled exclamation and ducked just in time to avoid getting punctured by the pointy projectile, nearly dropping her tray in the process.

"Hey, watch it, bozo!" she cried, shoving him on the arm. "Your needles are bad enough! I don't need some crazy G.I. doctor to stick a dart in me, too!"

"Oh, then you don't have to worry," he said innocently. "I'm not a G.I. doctor. I'm just a regular doctor."

Rosie rolled her eyes. "Regular nutcase, you mean," she said sarcastically. "'Hawkeye' my butt. More like 'Eye of Mole'. Just watch where you point those things, okay? I not too crazy about getting sued."

He patted her shoulder placatingly, and she gave a long-suffering sigh and went back to serving drinks. The bar was pretty busy tonight, and there was definitely no shortage of attractive nurses. But there was no sign of the nurse who had been dominating his thoughts for the past two weeks.

There weren't that many places she could be. The Officers' Club got kind of old after a while. There was the mess tent, but there was only so much food poisoning a person could take. So where was she?

"Yo," said B.J., interrupting his musings. "Are you going to finish your turn any time soon, or should I go take a stroll, write a letter to Peg, maybe catch up on some light Tolstoy?"

"I'm going, I'm going. Keep your shirt on." Hawkeye shook himself. He had to stop thinking about her.

Clearing his mind of all distractions, he focused on the board in front of him. He inhaled deeply, took careful aim, and let fly.

B.J. shouted wordlessly as the dart imbedded itself into the wall next to his head. He glared at Hawkeye. "The board's _that_ way, Dr. Magoo!" he said peevishly.

Hawkeye cringed apologetically. He was definitely off his game tonight. "Can I have a do-over?" he asked.

"Well... all right," his friend conceded reluctantly, pulling the dart from the wall and handing it over. "But first let me find a table to hide under. Or better yet, where's the nearest fox hole?"

"Yeah, yeah. Watch and learn, pal."

He took the dart between thumb and forefinger, and was about to let loose again when his ears picked up the sound of laughter outside. He turned toward the door just in time to see Klinger walk in, accompanied by Lieutenant Malone. She was laughing so hard that she could barely breathe.

"Oh, my God!" she cried, gasping for air. "That is uncanny! It sounds just like him! You can't tell me you haven't used that gift of yours for evil as well as good." She stood for some time with her hand over her chest, trying to catch her breath. When at last she had recovered, she waved weakly at Hawkeye and B.J. "Good evening, captains," she said with comical formality. She gestured to Klinger and added, "I believe you know our esteemed leader, Sherman Potter."

"That's Colonel Sherman _T._ Potter to you, young lady," said the clerk in a dead-on impression of the 4077th's commanding officer. "Weeell, how do, fellas?" he went on, rocking back and forth on his heels in an unmistakably Potter-esque fashion. "Come to wet your collective whistles?"

Hawkeye affected a shudder. "Okay, now that's just scary."

"All right, what's the gag?" B.J. asked Malone. "Where's Charles? Aren't you two usually attached at the hip?"

She chuckled. "Not this time. He's got Post-Op duty tonight."

"But don't worry, he's with us in spirit," said Klinger. He nudged Malone with his elbow. "Check it out. She's got him down perfectly."

B.J. raised his eyebrows in curiosity. "Oh, yeah? Let's see it."

The redhead appeared offended at the suggestion. "Please," she said with dignity. "I would never reduce one of my dearest friends to a mere caricature. I can't even believe you would ask me that. Now if you'll excuse me." She turned and marched haughtily past them... but not before throwing a very Charles-like smirk over her shoulder. "Gentlemeeen," she drawled.

The three men burst out laughing. "Hey, wait up!" Klinger called, hurrying after her to the bar.

Hawkeye followed her with his eyes. She and Klinger seemed to be on friendly terms again. He was glad that they had come to a reconciliation, and even more glad that they weren't hung up on each other anymore.

That meant she was up for grabs.

"Boy, she's come a long way," B.J. was saying. "Do you remember how stuffy she used to be? She's so much more fun now. I just wish some of it would rub off on Charles."

Hawkeye was barely listening. "God, she's cute," he murmured, almost to himself. "She's cute, right? I mean, it's not just me, is it? She really is... Hell, what am I saying? She's not just cute. She's the love child of a fluffy little bunny rabbit and Radar's teddy bear."

B.J. snorted in amusement. "Now that'd be a nature film worth watching."

"Come on," he persisted. "You can't tell me you don't think she's a dish."

The blond surgeon sighed. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that she's suddenly magicked herself pretty, would it?"

Hawkeye drew back in mock indignation. "I resemble that remark." B.J. nodded knowingly as if to say, _'I thought as much.'_ "Okay, okay," he relented. "So maybe I didn't notice her as much before. But can you blame me? The girl seemed like a lost cause. But _now._" He heaved a sigh. "It's like I'm seeing her in a whole new light. I can't get her out of my head, Beej. It's driving me crazy."

"Yeah, I noticed," said B.J. wryly.

He watched her for a moment across the bar as she conversed with Klinger. Her lop-sided smile, which had seemed so goofy before, was for some reason irresistible to him now. "I'm going to ask her out," he announced decisively.

B.J. looked at him in surprise. "You think you should?"

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "It seems to me like you've already got some competition."

"What, you mean Klinger? I thought he was over her."

B.J. shook his head. "Not Klinger," he replied. "Think taller. Think... less hair."

Hawkeye stared at him blankly. "_Charles?_" he finally blurted. A derisive laugh escaped him before he could help it. "Uhh, yeah. Well. He may have a soft spot for her, but if he hasn't made a move yet, I think it's safe to say he never will. Besides," he added, perhaps a little smugly, "I wouldn't exactly call it a competition."

"You're awfully sure of yourself," B.J. said quietly.

"Maybe I am. Why shouldn't I be? I mean, no offense to Chahhls, but what does he have that I haven't got?" He chortled. "More importantly, what _doesn't_ he have that I do?"

"A fourteen-page list of pick-up lines, for one," B.J. said dryly. "Look, are we going to finish this game or not? I've got a letter from Peg back in the Swamp that I've only read ten times."

"Huh? Oh." He hesitated for a moment, wavering back and forth in indecision. "Uhh... You go on back to camp. I'll catch up with you later."

B.J. rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Uh-huh." He removed the darts from the board and put them away. "I'd wish you luck, but you'd probably say you don't need it."

"You know me so well," he answered with a grin.

As B.J. left, Hawkeye turned and quickly scanned the room, making sure his quarry hadn't gone anywhere. What he saw gave him hope: Klinger was currently occupied in talking with a couple of the enlisted men, and Malone was sitting at a table, sipping tea by herself. _Perfect._

Smoothing down his thick hair, he sauntered over to her table and plopped down into the chair opposite her. "Hiya, Lotus Blossom," he said genially, gracing her with his most dazzling smile.

"Hello, Hawkeye," she replied, returning his smile. "Hey, I've got some good news. Do you remember the boy you operated on last week, Private Davidson? The one with the trauma to his spinal cord? Max just told me he got a call from the hospital in Tokyo today. Davidson's doing great. Absolutely no sign of paralysis."

"No kidding!" Hawkeye remembered the boy well. He had sat up all night with him, silently willing him to wiggle his toes. "That's terrific news, Red."

Malone grinned. "I had a feeling you'd think so," she said.

He gazed at her with his chin on his hand, smiling dreamily. "You know, this is nice," he said after a moment. "I like talking to you when you don't have your nose in a book."

She gave a low, husky laugh, and a thrill went through him at the sound. "I suppose I deserve that," she said wryly. "But you should know I've been trying harder to be more sociable. It's not something that comes naturally to me. Sometimes I envy you, Hawkeye. The way you can effortlessly put people at ease..." She sighed. "It's really quite disgusting."

"Why, thank you," he answered with a rakish grin. She chuckled again, and he leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Personally, I wouldn't change a thing about you. No, I mean it," he continued as she rolled her eyes. "I can't think of a single thing. In fact, I... haven't been able to think at all lately."

Malone quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? Why's that?"

"I think you know why," he purred seductively.

She laughed and shook her head. "I'm afraid not. As far as I know, I didn't become telepathic overnight."

Hawkeye tried to conceal his consternation. Either his overtures were too subtle, or the girl was completely oblivious to the signals he was sending her way. He suspected the latter.

He decided to go for the more direct approach. He leaned still further across the table toward her, taking her wrist in his hand. "I can't stop thinking about you," he murmured, his lips close to her ear. "My head's full of Red. Now, we can sit here and play games all night. Or we could go some place quiet and make a whole lot of noise. What do you say?"

Malone jerked her hand away from him, staring at him wide-eyed through her glasses. She looked utterly shell-shocked. After a moment, she shook her head, as if to marshal her thoughts. "So, this is what it feels like to be hit on by Hawkeye Pierce," she said evenly. "To be honest, I would have expected a little more finesse."

"Hey, you want finesse, you've got it," he told her, not missing a beat. "I can do finesse. I can also digress, caress, dress to impress, even _un_dress. Just say the word."

Her expressive face puckered into a frown, and he had to admit, it wasn't the most encouraging reaction he'd ever seen. "Thanks anyway," she said coolly.

Not one to be easily dissuaded, Hawkeye countered the chilliness of her demeanor with the warmth of his own voice. "Come on," he persisted with a smile. "Give me a chance. I guarantee you won't regret it."

The nurse made a noise which sounded suspiciously like a snort. "I'm fairly certain I would."

His smile faltered, but he refused to give up. "You sure about that, Red? We'd be fantastic together."

She let out an incredulous laugh. "You say that with such confidence," she said, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. "But how can you? You don't even _know_ me, Hawkeye."

Didn't know her? Ridiculous. "Sure I do," he said.

"Oh?" She narrowed her eyes. "What's my first name?"

He stared at her blankly. "...Molly."

"_Molly?_" she repeated in disbelief. "Really? Molly Malone? That's what you're going with?"

"Hey, hey, calm down, I'm kidding. I'm kidding!" He reached out and took her hand. "_Nellie._ Seriously, I like you. A lot."

Malone smiled wanly. "Ever since I stopped being ugly, right?"

Suddenly his face felt uncomfortably hot. "Hey, that's not fair."

"No, it isn't fair," she said flatly. "It isn't fair that you never even looked twice at me back when I was 'Mousy Malone'."

His eyes slid shut in mortification, and he cursed a couple of times in his head for good measure. "You know about that."

"It's a small camp, Hawkeye," she said quietly.

He sighed and drew his hand away. "Am I really that transparent?" he asked in a low voice.

"Like plate-glass."

He deserved that, no doubt. "I guess you must find me pretty repulsive," he said, his eyes on the table.

She shook her head. "No," she replied. "Just hopelessly predictable."

Hawkeye cringed. Boy, this one didn't pull any punches. "You know, I may be transparent, but I still have feelings."

"So do I."

He looked up at Malone, and for the first time, he was able to look past the makeup and the fiery curls — even past the freckles and the glasses — and he saw her for the strong, independent, extremely sharp young woman she was. And really, always had been.

_Light sage with flecks of gold,_ he thought in realization as he returned her gaze. _Klinger was right._

"Yeah. I know." He passed his hand through his hair. "Look, Red— Nellie. I'm sorry. Can we just... forget this ever happened and go back to being friends?"

She smiled, and he could swear she was secretly laughing at him. "Gladly."

Hawkeye held out his hand over the table, and she shook it formally, as if concluding a business agreement.

"What do you say we go play some darts?" he suggested.

"Sounds good." They got up from the table, and Malone cast a rather mischievous glance at him. "I have to ask, Hawkeye. Is that your usual method of hitting on girls?"

He sighed. "I thought we were going to forget about that."

"Because, frankly, it could do with some improvement," she continued. "I could give you a few pointers, if you like."

He was never going to live this down.

* * *

It was unfortunate, Nellie reflected ruefully as she took a swallow of lukewarm coffee in the mess tent, that the majority of her friends at the 4077th were men.

Of course, it went without saying that most of the time, they were the finest bunch of men she had ever met outside of her immediate family. Sure, they all had their own personal quirks, but their good qualities more than made up for any annoying idiosyncrasies they might have. They all had one thing in common, and that was integrity. She could always count on them, no matter what.

Or at least, that used to be the case. Now, it seemed, they had all gone bananas.

When she had consented to let Kellye give her a haircut, she hadn't counted on getting the full works. At first, she had enjoyed her new look, even if it did require a bit more effort to maintain than her former frowsiness. She felt less awkward in her own skin, and more confident. She just felt better.

But now she wasn't so sure it was worth it. Ever since her makeover, she had found herself the reluctant recipient of more male attention than she'd ever had in her life. Suddenly, men she hardly knew were accosting her, while men she had _thought_ she knew were acting like completely different people. She had never thought of herself as being remotely attractive to the opposite sex; endearingly gawky, at the most. This new turn of events was becoming more than she could handle.

As strange as it was, she missed being plain.

She sighed and attempted to distract herself by pushing the food around her tray with her fork. Today's offering was something that was supposed to resemble roast beef with red wine gravy, but looked more like an aerial view of the La Brea tar pits.

Francis Mulcahy was sitting across from her with a pen and a notepad, writing his sermon for the following Sunday. He observed her mindless activity for a few moments, before clearing his throat. "Is everything all right, Nellie?"

She exhaled loudly, setting down her fork with a clatter. "Men are idiots," she said bluntly.

The chaplain's eyebrows went up. "Oh, well... thank you," he replied, sounding bemused.

Nellie realized her mistake. "No, I— Of course I didn't mean you, Father," she explained quickly. "I was talking about normal men."

"Again, thank you," he said wryly.

She winced. "I'm sorry, that's not what I meant, either. I just—"

Mulcahy chuckled softly. "There's no need to apologize," he said easily. "As a matter of fact, I think I may know where you're going with this."

"You do?"

"Mmm." He sipped his coffee. "To tell you the truth, I suspected that your new look might attract some, shall we say, unwelcome admirers."

Nellie made a face. "Unwelcome is right," she muttered, poking at her soggy roast beef. She hesitated, watching the priest out of the corner of her eye. "Can I tell you something, Father?" she finally asked.

"Of course. Confessions are my specialty."

She leaned in and dropped her voice to a more confidential tone. "I _like_ the way I look now," she said. "I do. And I don't think it's vanity. Or at least, I'm hoping that's not what it is." Mulcahy smiled faintly. "I just... I feel like a new person. Like someone who could take on anything, you know?" She shook her head slowly. "But I think I'd be willing to give all that up, if everyone would just treat me the way they used to."

The more she talked about it, the more indignant she found herself becoming. "What _is_ it with men?" she demanded furiously. "I've been here almost six months now, and none of them have ever shown the slightest hint of interest in me, except for Max. But the minute I slap on some lipstick, suddenly they won't leave me alone. And _Max!_" She rolled her eyes. "Well, you saw the way he acted in the Officer's Club, didn't you?"

"Ohhh, yes," said Mulcahy with a knowing look.

She sat back with a sigh of vexation. "I don't know. I just don't understand what all the fuss is about. Be honest, Father: do I really look all that different? Have I _changed_ all that much?"

"Well..." He leaned forward and made a great show of examining her, his brow furrowed, his eyes squinting behind his spectacles. "The haircut is admittedly quite becoming," he said at last. "It certainly makes your eyes more noticeable." He smiled. "But other than that, I'm afraid you look like the same old Nellie to me."

She chuckled. "Glad to hear it," she said gratefully.

"You know," he continued, "there's nothing wrong with taking a reasonable amount of pride in one's appearance. Even Christ, who had nowhere to lay his head, owned a very fine linen garment. And why do you think I go jogging every morning, rain or shine? This trim figure doesn't maintain itself, you know!" Nellie laughed. "Just give it some time," he said, patting her hand. "The thing you have to keep in mind about men — and especially the men in this camp — is that they love making new discoveries. And that's what you are at the moment. You're new and fresh and exciting. But after a while, they'll remember that deep down, where it really counts, you've _always_ been the same old Nellie."

She smiled, and it took a great deal of effort to restrain herself from leaning across the table and hugging him. Instead she settled for squeezing his hand. "I'm going to hold you to that, Father."

Suddenly she jumped in surprise as a tray was dropped unceremoniously on the table next to her own, and Charles Winchester all but fell onto the bench beside her. "Good Lord," he muttered direly, inspecting the food on his tray. "What is this dog's breakfast they're trying to pass off as supper?"

"Hello to you, too, Major Cranky-pants," Nellie said with a wry smile.

His blue eyes flashed at her, and she could see he was less amused.

"Is something the matter, Major?" Mulcahy inquired politely.

He passed a long hand across his face. "No, no, not a thing, Father," he replied tiredly. "Aside from the fact that I've been saddled with the night shift in Post-Op."

"What?" Nellie exclaimed. "You just _had_ the night shift!"

"Strangely enough, I am aware of that, Malone," he said sardonically. Nellie chose to let his tone slide; she knew that when he was in a bad mood, he took it out on everyone. "Tonight's shift was originally assigned to Colonel Potter. However, I've just been informed that he has been summoned to a conference in Tokyo, and he must leave no later than five o'clock tomorrow morning. Obviously, the man cannot be expected to do both. Therefore, joy of joys, his shift has naturally been bequeathed to me."

"Well, why can't Hawkeye or B.J. do it?" she asked.

He gave a sour laugh. "Are you joking? Trying to ask those two harlequins for a favor is like trying to find a decent concert hall in _Kansas_."

Mulcahy caught her eye, and they both stifled a smile. It wouldn't have helped, no doubt, that Winchester probably hadn't asked either of his tentmates very nicely. "Well, as a matter of fact," she told him, finishing off her coffee, "I've got the night shift, too. So I'll do my very best to keep you awake."

"Very generous of you, I'm sure," he answered dryly.

She shrugged casually. "Fine," she said, standing up from the table. "Then I'll just curl up in a corner with a good book of poems and leave you to stew in your own misery." She paused reflectively. "Hmm, which should I choose, Robert Burns or Alfred, Lord Tennyson...?"

Winchester stopped her with a hand on her arm. "No, no, I..." He sighed penitently, which was his version of an apology. "I would... be glad of your company, Malone. As always."

She smiled. "Don't worry, Charles," she said reassuringly, patting him on the shoulder. "It'll be fun. We've got no serious cases to worry about. I'll make some coffee; _real_ coffee, mind you. My uncle sent me some, along with a box of particularly heavenly fudge. We'll play a few games of Go, and you'll forget all about taking a punch for your commanding officer."

"The word 'fun' is tossed about by young people with entirely too much liberty these days," he remarked, though not without a slight smile. "However, I believe I shall take you up on your offer. Oh, and," he added as afterthought, "bring your Tennyson."

Nellie grinned. "That's the spirit."

And although, obviously, she could not speak for Winchester, Nellie could not recall ever having such an enjoyable night shift, either here at the 4077th or back at the army hospital in San Francisco. None of the patients' injuries were life-threatening, and the majority of them didn't make so much as a peep the whole night through. Between a few games of Go and several cups of fresh coffee, she and Winchester sat at the desk in the corner and chatted together of this and that, keeping their voices low so as not to wake the sleeping patients.

It was times like this, Nellie mused as she popped a piece of fudge in her mouth, that she remembered exactly why she liked Winchester as much as she did. She knew, of course, that her high regard for him wasn't shared by the rest of the camp. And she knew that he could be pretentious, narcissistic, and at times downright rude. But when he was in good spirits, and he allowed himself to let his guard down, he was pleasant, charming, and a brilliant conversationalist. There was so much more to him than he would prefer the rest of the world to know, and she felt fortunate, even honored, that she was able to see it.

It was probably why she preferred his company over that of anyone else.

"All right, I've got a question for you," she said, propping her chin on her fist. "If you were stranded on a desert island, and you could take only three things with you from the outside world, what would you choose?"

"Only three, you say? Hmm." Winchester sat back in his chair, his brow furrowed in thought. "Well, that's easy enough. My books, my Swiss army knife... and the entire Boston Symphony Orchestra."

She had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. "Boston, Boston, Boston," she said, shaking her head in exasperation. "Is that all you ever think about?"

"Certainly not," he replied with dignity. "Haven't I ever told you about my love affair with Tokyo?"

"Numerous times, actually," she said with a chuckle.

He smiled faintly, his eyes far away. "I'd like to take you there one day," he said wistfully after a moment. "Boston, that is. Provided this interminable war ever ends." His smile faded too soon. "God, I miss it so. The colors of autumn. The sound of the waves lapping up against the shore of the harbor. And the _culture._" He sighed rapturously. "Truly, Malone, the orchestra is absolutely first-rate. Makes that little Oregon Symphony of yours sound like a high school marching band," he added with a wicked smirk.

He stopped abruptly when he saw the stunned look on her face. "What is it?" he inquired.

Nellie blinked at him, still slightly taken aback. "Were you being serious just now?" she asked in a low voice. "Would you... really take me to Boston?"

He regarded her with a curious expression. "Yes, by all means," he said sincerely. "As a friend, you understand," he hastened to add. "There wouldn't be anything improper or untoward about it. Assuming, of course... you would like to come."

She nodded, wondering why she suddenly felt very warm in spite of the relative coolness of the Post-Op ward. "I'd love to," she managed to reply.

Winchester smiled.

"Nurse?"

Jumping slightly, Nellie turned toward the weak voice. A soldier — Private O'Hara, she believed was the name — was waving a feeble hand in her direction. "Just a minute," she called to him in a hushed voice. "I'll be right back," she said to Winchester.

She stood and crossed the room, taking slow, controlled breaths. She was silently grateful to the soldier for the interruption.

It was a well-established fact that Charles Winchester was determined, the instant he got back to Boston, to wipe every trace of Korea along with all of its associations clean from his memory, never to be recalled again. To him, there was no life outside of Boston. But now, he was inviting her to come to his beloved hometown. He was offering to show her the sights.

That meant that she was more to him than a temporary diversion. That meant that, not only was he genuinely fond of her, but that even after the war was over, he still wanted to see her.

The thought brought an entirely unexpected flush to her cheeks.

Trying to hold back a ridiculous smile, she walked over to the patient's bed and knelt beside it. "What can I do for you, O'Hara?" she whispered.

"Is it okay for me to have a glass of water?" he asked, gazing up at her beseechingly.

She chuckled under her breath. "Of course." As she went and filled a glass from a nearby carafe, she felt the soldier's eyes following her. She came back and helped to raise him to a sitting position before handing him the glass. "Anything else I can get you?"

"Yeah," he said with a weak grin. "Your phone number back in the States."

Nellie rolled her eyes. "You know, you're in an awfully delicate position to be flirting with a nurse who happens to hold your life in her hands," she told him dryly.

O'Hara wiggled his eyebrows at her as he drank his water. "I don't know whether I should be terrified or turned on."

"I'll give you one guess," she said, narrowing her eyes exaggeratedly. She took his glass and set it aside, then fluffed his pillows back into place. "Now, if you don't have any _real_ requests, just try to get some rest."

"Can't sleep without a good-night kiss," he answered with a roguish wink.

"All right, that's quite enough of that," came Winchester's voice from above Nellie. She straightened to find the major towering over her, looking none too pleased. "Back to sleep with you, Private."

"We were only talking, sir," O'Hara said guilelessly.

"Yes, and I heard every word," Winchester fired back. "You should be ashamed of yourself, O'Hara. Or are you not aware that this woman is your superior officer?"

Nellie stared at him in disbelief. _Sweet Lord, not him, too,_ she thought.

"Now, unless you would like a misconduct report filed against you," the surgeon continued, oblivious to her growing irritation, "I suggest you apologize to Lieutenant Malone and accord her the respect befitting an officer of her station. Do you understand?"

O'Hara swallowed, sufficiently cowed by Winchester's intimidating tone. "Yes, sir. Sorry, Lieutenant."

"Charles," Nellie said very calmly, "may I speak to you for a moment outside, please?"

"Certainly, but—"

She grabbed him by the lapel of his white coat and pulled him out the door into the compound. "What is the matter with you?" she hissed, her fists clenched.

He blinked at her, clearly perplexed by her sudden fury. "I fail to understand why you're angry at _me_, Malone," he said defensively. "After all, it was that brazen little upstart who refused to leave you alone. I was merely sparing you the annoyance of—"

"Well, _don't_, all right? Just don't." She exhaled in frustration, pushing her hands through her hair. "I'm a grown woman, Charles. I think I can handle the harmless flirtations of a bed-ridden soldier with a broken leg!"

He winced at the slightly shrill note in her voice. "Well, forgive me for my concern," he answered ironically. "Next time I shall think twice before defending your honor."

Nellie had to take a deep, calming breath in order to keep from screaming. "Look," she said, clasping her hands in front of her. "I appreciate the gesture. And I mean this in the nicest way possible. I don't _want_ you to defend my honor!" She shook her head with a slightly hysterical laugh. "This is not the Middle Ages, you are not a knight-errant, and I am certainly not a damsel in distress!"

Winchester attempted to interject, but she wasn't finished. "I'm so tired of all this! It's pure madness! Why should everything have to change just because of... of _this?_" she said, pointing to her face. She sighed, her shoulders sagging. "I like you, Charles. I can't tell you how much it's meant to me, having a friend like you. You keep me _sane._" She bit her lip. "I don't want that to change, just because I'm not Mousy Malone anymore."

He gazed at her for a long moment, before giving an almost imperceptible nod. "Very well," he said quietly. "Point taken." He quirked a slight smile. "From this moment onward, I shall do my best to curb my chivalrous impulses."

She could have wept in relief. "Thank you," she said, returning his smile. "You know," she added, after a brief pause, "I'm not exactly _glad_ that I voluntarily followed my brother half-way across the globe and into a war-zone. God knows that wasn't my finest decision." Winchester chuckled. "But I don't regret it," she said seriously. "Because if I hadn't come here, I never would have met you. And I'm glad I met you, Charles."

Her eyes were on the ground as she spoke, because she couldn't quite bring herself to look him in the eye. But a sudden, strange noise caused her to look up sharply at him. His shoulders were shaking ever so slightly. It took her a few seconds to realize he was laughing.

"What's so funny?" she demanded, more than a little surprised by how hurt she felt.

Winchester shook his head, still trying to contain his laughter. "I'm sorry, I..." He broke off and proceeded to laugh even harder.

"Oh, that is _it,_" Nellie growled, clenching her fists. "I have _had_ it with you men. Every last one of you is physically incapable of carrying on a serious conversation. Well, congratulations. This is officially the _last_ time I ever try to tell you anything important—"

He cut her tirade short, seizing her hand and holding it tightly in both of his. He shook his head again, and for the first time she noticed that though he was still smiling, his eyes were shining with unshed tears.

"Oh, Malone," he said fondly. "You dear, dear little thing."

She swallowed, hard. For some reason, her heart was suddenly pounding in her chest.

"I cannot sufficiently convey to you," he continued in that same warm tone, "how grateful I am to have had the honor and the sheer joy of your companionship these past few months. Before you arrived here, dusty and disheveled, I was dangerously close to suffering some sort of breakdown, I'm almost positive of that. In fact, I... I don't... I don't care to think of what might have happened to me, if you hadn't come here." He squeezed her hand in his. "I am... glad I met you, as well."

It took Nellie a moment to push her words past the lump in her throat. "I think you did a pretty good job of conveying that," she said tightly.

Winchester smiled again, and raised her hand briefly to his lips before releasing it to her. "Now," he said briskly, rubbing his hands together, "let us go in, shall we? It's a lovely night, but far too cold for maudlin declarations, don't you think?" He held the door open for her. "After you, my dear."

Nellie ducked inside ahead of him, carefully concealing her madly blushing face from him as she passed. She resumed her seat at the desk in the corner, and he sat down opposite her, picking up her book of poetry. "Have you any objection to my reading aloud for a while?" he asked. "I find it helps me to stay awake."

She shook her head. "Not at all," she said quickly.

He leaned forward and held the book closer to the lamplight. After leafing through the pages for a few moments, he evidently found a poem he liked. With a faint smile, he began to read.

"_Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;  
__Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;  
__Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:  
__The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me..."_

Nellie tried to find a comfortable position as Winchester continued to read, touched by the careful, almost reverent way he held her cherished book in his hands. She watched his blue eyes follow the words on the page, and the movement of his lips as he spoke them. She settled back in her chair and let her eyelids flutter shut, letting the deep, rich timbre of his voice wash over her.

"Malone. Malone, wake up."

Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up abruptly in her chair. Winchester was leaning toward her with a hand on her shoulder, his face close to hers. "Hmm? What is it?" she asked, blinking tiredly through her skewed spectacles.

"You fell asleep," he said with a slight smile. "I'm offended that I can't hold your attention long enough to finish one poem."

She blushed. "Sorry about that," she mumbled, straightening her glasses.

Winchester shook his head. "Think nothing of it," he murmured, reaching up to brush a stray curl behind her ear. "I suppose I should know better than to read you poetry at three in the morning."

"Is it really that late?"

"It is indeed."

His hand lingered near her face as she returned his intense blue gaze; she could feel its radiant warmth on her skin. She caught a faint whiff of his sandalwood soap, simple and earthy and intoxicating. Her breathing grew shallow, her head slightly foggy. Suddenly she found herself wishing fervently that he would move closer.

And then his hand fell away, and he stood up. "Perhaps I should make us some more coffee," he suggested.

She nodded quickly. "Good idea," she replied, a little breathlessly.

He picked up the coffee pot and made his way over to the adjoining room to fill it at the washing station. Nellie's eyes followed him as he went. When at last he had gone, she let out the breath she had been holding and slumped forward in her chair, passing a hand over her burning face.

_Oh, crumbs,_ she thought.

* * *

A/N: Holy heck, that was long. Forty-five pages on my word processor, to be precise. _Forty-five!_ But I was loath to break it up into smaller sections, because all of its parts fit in with the title of the chapter. I'm just glad I'm finally done! And that you get to read it! I can't wait to learn what you thought of it. So please, support your local fanfiction writer, and leave a review before you go.

-Octopus


	16. Closer to Lousy than Fine

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update; I have no excuse, other than a nasty case of writer's block. But thanks so much for all your reviews! It warms the cockles of my heart to know that you're enjoying this story, as massive and long-winded as it is.

This chapter is dedicated to Miss Amymimi, for all of her wonderful feedback. And let me just say, if you've ever found yourself wondering what it would have been like if Frank and Charles had met, go check out her story, "Fate and Frank Burns". I've been addicted since the very first chapter.

Disclaimer: As much as I love _M*A*S*H_, I cannot claim ownership of it. Nor would it be wise for me to do so.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Sixteen: Closer to Lousy than Fine

It wasn't every day that Sherman Potter got to pull out his paints and brushes. Being the commanding officer of a mobile hospital didn't exactly allow much time for pursuing one's hobbies. Between dealing with endless paperwork and endless casualties, his days were usually so hectic that on the rare occasions that he had some time to himself, he was just too bushed to do anything that required actual effort. What little free time he had was spent reading, listening to old cowboy ballads on his record player, or soaking his aching feet in epsom salts. Frankly, it was a miracle he even had time to keep a horse, but there was no way in hell he was going to give up Sophie just to make his life easier. She was worth it.

When he was in the right frame of mind, though, nothing was more effective in lifting Potter's spirits than painting. Aside from the enjoyment he derived from the activity itself, there was something to be said for the immense satisfaction and sense of accomplishment he felt when he could look at a finished piece and know that he had created it, that it existed because of _him._ He wasn't sure if that qualified as egotism, but if it did, at least it was a very mild form.

Above all else, he loved to paint portraits. The study of the human countenance had always fascinated him: the variety of bone structures, the different facial muscles, and the way even the most subtle play of movement of these muscles could convey an infinite number of emotions. It was said that the eyes were the windows to the soul, but Potter firmly believed that the entire essence of a person's being was right there on the face, if one simply looked hard enough. Every single aspect told a story, down to the tiniest wrinkle. To be able to truly capture that essence in oils or charcoal or watercolors was, in Potter's opinion, was one of the most incredible things a person could do.

Not that he believed that he had ever successfully done so. But it felt damned good when he came close.

And, of course, it didn't hurt to have a pretty model to paint.

"Lean your head just a hair to the left, Lieutenant," he said, squinting appraisingly at his subject through his spectacles. "And don't take your peepers off that book."

Nurse Malone did as she was instructed, her head tilting ever so slightly on its side. Unfortunately, the movement caused a wayward red curl to fall into her eyes. _Oh, well,_ Potter thought with a shrug. _Looks more natural, anyway._

As he mixed some more red ochre together with burnt sienna to make the needed adjustments, Malone sat obediently motionless in the chair on the other side of his desk, an old leather-bound book in her hands. The idea had come to him when he had spied the young woman at the bar in the Officers' Club, her nose buried in something by Dickens or Dumas or whoever. Potter had always liked those Renoir paintings of women reading, so he figured he might as well take a bash at it.

He had told Malone not to take her eyes off the book, but he had a feeling his reminders weren't necessary. He was fairly certain she doing more than just _pretending_ to read.

As far as sitting for a portrait went, she was a trooper, but he really wished she would loosen up those shoulders of hers. Of course, he could understand how it might be a little nerve-wracking for a young nurse to be subjected to the scrutinization of her commanding officer. But the poor girl looked as if she were being forced to read at gunpoint.

Maybe a little small talk might help to put her at her ease. "Well, Malone," he said conversationally as he dabbed his brush in the red pigment, "what did you think of the movie last night?"

The left side of her mouth twitched briefly in a restrained form of her crooked smile. "I enjoyed it very much, sir," she replied. "Although I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a Marx Brothers film the same way again. The similarities between Groucho and Captain Pierce are almost disturbing."

Potter chuckled. "That's what I keep telling my wife, Mildred. Only she won't believe me. She insists that nobody could possibly be that loony."

"Well," she said dryly, "you can tell her from me, sir, that he's loonier than a Canadian dollar. In a good way, of course."

"Oh, of course," he concurred with a sage nod. She laughed quietly, and as he watched, her tense shoulders seemed to relax. "So, what sort of flicks do you like, Lieutenant? Anything I'd have seen?"

Malone thought for a moment, her eyes still fixed on the book in her lap. "Most of my favorite films are based on classic literature," she said at length. "_Great Expectations_, _Wuthering Heights_, _The Hunchback of Notre-Dame_..."

"Oh, with Charles Laughton and Maureen O'Hara?"

She began to nod, then caught herself and quickly stopped. "Sorry. Yes, that's the one. It's nothing like the book, but I love it anyway." She smiled a little guiltily. "And even though I forbade my little brother from seeing any of Alfred Hitchcock's films, I secretly watched them all without him."

"That fella certainly knows how to scare the living daylights out of you," Potter had to agree.

"What about you, Colonel? What's your favorite film?"

"Shoot, that's easy," he answered right away. "_My Darling Clementine_."

Malone's eyebrows drew together for an instant. "I'm not sure I've seen that," she said.

"You'd know if you had. It's the finest Western ever made." He picked up a round sable brush and began to go to work on the smaller details. "We watched it here at the 4077th, oh, a little over a year ago. Of course, that was before your time. Back when Klinger's wardrobe was the envy of every female officer this side of the Sea of Japan."

Her shoulders shook with silent laughter. "You're making it very difficult to hold still, sir."

"Sorry." He gazed thoughtfully at her before continuing. "Speaking of Klinger, I take it everything is A-okay between you two kids again?"

At this the nurse cringed, and her fingers curled involuntarily around her book. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Yes, sir," she replied in an awkwardly formal tone. "And as far as that goes, I realize that technically it's against military protocol for officers to have relationships with enlisted personnel—"

Potter shook his head dismissively. "At ease, Lieutenant," he said. "If you were in trouble, you would've known about it long before now. The Army's policy on fraternization clearly states that it's up to the C.O. to determine whether such relationships interfere with discipline or the chain of command. And yours obviously didn't." He gave a casual shrug. "I figured, if Major Houlihan didn't see a reason to say anything, then why should I make a big stink about it?"

Malone cast a grateful glance at him. "I appreciate that, sir, but all the same—"

He held up his hand. "I don't want to hear any more about it, young lady," he said firmly. "I've never been the kind of commander who goes around his camp with a clipboard and a red pen, waiting for his people to take a wrong step. Besides," he confessed, "I've always had a soft spot for Klinger. I just didn't have the heart to split you two up."

She smiled faintly. "Max is definitely one in a million. He's going to make some girl very happy someday."

"You're no slouch yourself, Lieutenant," Potter told her.

She chuckled under her breath. "Thank you, Colonel."

"Speaking of slouching, though..."

"Oh!" She sat up straight in her chair. "Sorry, sir."

"It's all right." He put a dab of Vandyke brown on his palette and started on the nurse's freckles. "You're pretty good at sitting for portraits. You wouldn't believe the grief your old pal Winchester gave me."

Malone snorted in amusement. "Having seen his portrait, that doesn't surprise me in the least," she said wryly.

"Of course," he went on reflectively, "I painted that right after he came here. Now he's a lot more..." He hesitated. "That is, he's a little less... Well, let's just say we're used to him now." She tried unsuccessfully to hold back a laugh. "Now don't get me wrong," he hastened to add. "I've got nothing against Winchester. He's a fine officer, and one hell — I mean, one heck of a surgeon. But I guess the two of us have never been what you'd call chummy."

"Well, that's understandable, sir," the redhead replied. "He's definitely not the easiest person to get along with."

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Seems to me you've done pretty well."

Malone's cheeks reddened — for the first time, Potter couldn't help noting with interest. She hadn't blushed when he'd brought up Klinger. "He's not so bad, really," she said quietly. "He's actually a very nice person. He just doesn't want anyone to know it."

He studied her carefully. "Why do you suppose that is?" he asked.

For a long moment she was silent, and Potter began to think he might not get an answer. Finally she shook her head, very slowly. "Honestly, I couldn't say, sir," she admitted. "He seems to have built up this façade of aloofness and disdain. But that's not at all what he's really like. I've seen a side to him that's just..." She trailed off, sighing in frustration. "If you ask me, it's a defense mechanism. As long as people think he's a heartless jerk, they won't want to get close to him. And if they can't get close to him, they can't hurt him, either."

"You seem to have given this a lot of thought," remarked Potter.

Her blush intensified. "Maybe too much thought," she murmured, almost to herself. "Maybe I'm just making excuses, and he really _is_ as awful as everyone says he is. All I know is, he's been a good friend to me."

The colonel regarded the little nurse curiously. If anyone in the camp knew about some hidden side to Winchester, then it was Nellie Malone, no doubt about it. It was almost as if she had extra-special specs that allowed her to see something that the rest of them couldn't. Potter didn't know how she was able to tolerate the man, but it was clear that she genuinely enjoyed the major's company, and the same seemed to be true of Winchester. In the seven months since Malone had been under Potter's command, he had seen the standoffish surgeon smile more times than he could ever recall seeing in the entire time he'd been at the 4077th.

Potter wasn't sure exactly what it was about the young lady that had managed to move the major's heart, such as it was. But he wasn't complaining. Frankly, he was just thankful that Winchester had finally stopped pestering him for a transfer. He hated to see a grown man grovel.

"Well, Lieutenant," he said after a brief pause, returning his attention to the canvas, "if you say he's a stand-up guy, I'll take your word for it. You would know better than any of us."

She met his eyes briefly and smiled. "It's good to know _someone_ believes me," she replied.

Suddenly her eyes widened as her gaze shifted past him to the window. "Is that...?" She leaned forward in her chair, an intense, eager expression on her face. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Is _what_ what you think it is?" He twisted around in his own chair to see what she was looking at. "Oh, you mean the rain? I guess it is the first rain of the year." He frowned as he realized what that meant. "Usually the rains don't start until May, or even June. Looks like monsoon season is coming to Korea a month early."

"Rain..." Standing up and placing the book on her chair, Malone walked over to the window, transfixed by the sight. Potter looked at her in puzzlement, wondering why something so insignificant could have such an effect on her. "In Oregon, it rained all the time. I suppose I just took it for granted. But last June, I was transferred to the Letterman Army Hospital, and it was an unusually dry summer for San Francisco. Then in September, I came here, and it hasn't rained at all." She shook her head in amazement. "I haven't seen rain in almost a year."

As Potter watched, a slow smile spread over her face, until she was positively beaming. "I can't believe it! Rain! Glorious rain!" Laughing ecstatically, she ran to the door connecting his office to the company clerk's and pushed it open. Still somewhat bewildered, Potter set down his paint brush and followed her.

She was standing beside Klinger's chair, wringing the clerk's hands in excitement. "Max, come on, look outside!" she exclaimed insistently. "It's _raining!_"

"I _know_ it's raining, Nellie," he said, giving her a strange look as she pulled him impatiently to his feet. "I was just outside in it. Sheesh, what's the big deal?"

"The 'big deal'?" Malone repeated in disbelief. "Do you have any idea what it's like for a native Oregonian to go almost a _year_ without rain? I've been drying up like a fish out of water!"

Klinger blinked. "Okay," he said slowly. "So, what are you going to do?"

She grinned in response. "This."

With that, she dashed out the door into the compound.

"Now, wait just a minute, Malone!" Potter called after her. "I haven't finished with your portrait yet! You're going to get all... wet." He gave up as the red-haired nurse quickly became soaked. "Oh, well. Dismissed, Lieutenant."

He shook his head as she began spinning in circles under the downpour, laughing in sheer delight. She splashed around in the rapidly forming puddles, shook her drenched hair back and forth, and generally proceeded to behave like a total maniac.

Klinger came to stand beside him in the open doorway, and Potter shared a significant glance with him. "You used to date her, huh?" he asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Yes, sir," the clerk replied in a wry undertone. "But that was before I knew she was Section Eight."

* * *

Rain was essential for life. Without it, nothing could grow. Nothing could _survive_. It was a gift from above. And Francis Mulcahy knew he should be thankful for it.

But the fact of the matter was that he hated it with every fiber of his being.

As he sat at the only table in the mess tent that wasn't crammed with people who, like himself, had gathered there to seek shelter from the rain, he stared moodily into his cup of coffee, wondering at the United States military's decision to involve itself in a war — or "civil action", as they liked to call it — in a place that was alternately freezing cold, blazing hot, and subject to deluges of nearly Biblical proportions. If he knew which channels to go through, he would be tempted to file an official complaint on the grounds of cruel and unusual precipitation.

Mulcahy had never liked rain, even as a child in Philadelphia. Every time he saw dark clouds looming on the horizon, he felt a similar gloom overtake him, almost as though the clouds were simultaneously settling in his mind. He wished with all his heart that he didn't have to be affected by something as trivial as the weather, but he couldn't help it. All he could do was pray that it didn't last.

At the moment, however, he wasn't _praying_, per se. In fact, as he watched a steady trickle of rain leak through the roof of the mess tent onto the corner of his table with an incessant _drip-drip-drip_, he found himself repeating a rhyme he remembered from his childhood.

_Rain, rain, go away, come again another day,_ he thought listlessly. _Little Johnny wants to play._

The door to the mess tent was suddenly flung open, and Hawkeye dashed inside, shaking the water from his hair like a dog. "Boy, it's miserable out there," he said through chattering teeth. "Who gave Korea permission to rain on my parade?"

He spotted Mulcahy and squelched over to join him at his table. "How's the coffee this morning, Father?" he asked, removing his hat and wringing it dry.

The priest shot him a look, as if to say, _What do you think?_

Hawkeye winced. "That bad?"

"I simply don't see how it could be that difficult to pour hot water through beans," muttered Mulcahy.

"That would require more firing synapses than our cook possesses." The chief surgeon looped a long finger around the handle of Mulcahy's mug and lifted it to his lips. "Yechhh," he exclaimed, screwing up his face in disgust. "Tastes like essence of ashtray."

"Curiosity killed the cat," Mulcahy told him dryly.

"Yeah. Lucky stiff." He set the mug down on the table, and Mulcahy could feel his eyes on him. "What's the matter, Father?" he asked at length. "Where's that sunny smile we all know and love?"

"If you must know, it high-tailed it out of here," the chaplain replied sourly; "right after monsoon season hit." After a moment of embarrassed hesitation, he sighed and lowered his voice. "I'm sorry, Hawkeye. To be honest, I'm afraid I haven't found very many reasons to smile lately."

Hawkeye waved his hand dismissively. "Hey, don't worry about it. I think the rain has gotten to all of us."

"Not all of us," Mulcahy countered with a roll of his eyes.

A slow grin spread over the surgeon's face as he comprehended his meaning. "Well, _nearly_ all of us," he amended. "But between you and me, I think our dear Nellie may have succumbed to senility a few decades early."

Mulcahy felt a half-hearted smile tug at his lips. "What I wouldn't give to have her enthusiasm." He shook his head gloomily. "This may sound silly to you, but rain never fails to depress me. I couldn't tell you why, but it's always affected me this way. I pray to God for the strength to endure it, but... it doesn't always work. I suppose I must not want it badly enough."

As he spoke, Hawkeye fished around in the inner pocket of his jacket and found a crumpled scrap of paper. Smoothing it out on the table, he began to fold creases into it, until gradually a shape began to emerge. Mulcahy fell silent, watching him with interest.

When he was finished, he set it on the table in front of the chaplain. It was an origami duck. "_Voilà_," he said with a flourish. "For my favorite fighting Irish in the whole U.S. Army."

Mulcahy couldn't help smiling as he took up the little paper bird. "Why, this is wonderful," he exclaimed, turning it over in his hands. "Where did you learn to do this?"

Hawkeye gave a careless shrug. "I picked up an origami book on my last trip to Tokyo. It's not a bad way to keep from going crazy."

The priest chuckled, and Hawkeye leaned in close to him. "Listen, I know it doesn't always seem like it, but we need you around here, Father," he said quietly. "We need your gentle good humor to lift our spirits through osmosis. If we didn't have that..." He shook his head. "Let's just say, this place may be a dump, but without you, it would be Hell."

As he returned the surgeon's sincere gaze, Mulcahy felt his own eyes begin to sting with tears. "Thank you, Hawkeye," he said, a little thickly.

"Don't mention it, Francis," the man replied with a smile.

Setting down the origami duck, which would no doubt find a place among Mulcahy's most cherished possessions, he removed his glasses to wipe discreetly at his eyes. "Hey, come on, cut it out!" Hawkeye said in dismay, shoving the chaplain on the arm. "That was supposed to cheer you up!"

Mulcahy laughed — an honest-to-goodness, genuine laugh. "It did," he assured him, returning his glasses to his face.

At that moment the door swung open again, and Nellie Malone bustled in, whistling some sprightly classical piece, water pouring from her hair in heavy droplets. "Good morning, Father," she chirped as she came over to stand by their table, "Hawkeye."

"'Morning, Nellie May," said Hawkeye, smiling impishly. "Still enjoying the weather?"

"Immensely," she answered with a grin. He chuckled. "There's one thing, and one thing only, that I don't like about the rain, and that's being obliged to clean my glasses fifty times a day." As she spoke, she took off her spectacles and dried them off on the hem of her shirt, which wasn't much less damp than the rest of her. "Aside from that, this is my idea of heaven."

Mulcahy shook his head sadly. "Oh, dear," he said to Hawkeye in a worried tone. "The poor girl must have gone and caught a cold. She's obviously delirious with a high fever."

"Delirious? She's positively ranting." Nellie swatted the surgeon on the back of the head, and he poked her in the ribs. Mulcahy found it amazing that Hawkeye had never attempted to make any romantic overtures toward the redhead, particularly after her makeover. On the contrary, the two had lately developed a habit of teasing each other relentlessly, not unlike a brother and sister might. It was interesting to observe Hawkeye, an incurable skirt-chaser, interacting with an attractive woman _without_ flirting. Interesting, and slightly jarring.

"Oh, by the way," Nellie was saying, "you'll never guess which film Potter's got lined up for movie night this week."

"Out with it, Red," said Hawkeye.

She paused for dramatic effect. "_The Rains Came_, with Tyrone Power and Myrna Loy."

Mulcahy groaned. "Very clever," he said wryly.

Hawkeye was unimpressed. "What do we need to see Myrna Loy for? We've already got you."

"Yeah, right," Nellie said with a roll of her eyes. "Except that, unlike Myrna Loy, I can't hold my liquor, remember?"

"How could I forget?" drawled a voice behind her, causing the nurse to nearly leap out of her skin. Mulcahy twisted around to see Major Winchester smirking down at her, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat.

"Charles!" Nellie held her hand to her chest, blushing furiously. "Don't... _do_ that! You scared the h— heck out of me," she said with a sheepish glance at the priest.

The Bostonian gave an evil little chuckle. "Of course," he replied, his eyes dancing with amusement. "That was my intention." She glared up at him. "Oh, come, Malone, don't be cross. Have you eaten breakfast yet?"

"No," she said slowly. "But what does that have to do with—"

"Then allow me to fix a tray for you." Nellie's blush deepened as he gently steered her to the other side of the table, his hand on the small of her back. "Go on, have a seat. Won't be but a moment."

"A-All right," she replied weakly, sitting down across from Mulcahy, away from the rain dripping onto the table. "Thank you, Charles."

Mulcahy observed with some surprise as the major moved off toward the mess line. Hawkeye, meanwhile, had watched this little exchange like... well, like a hawk. "I'll tell you something," he said in a low, conspiratorial voice. "If Chuck gets any nicer, I'm going to be forced to read his journal. Either I'm losing it, or he's been visited by three Christmas spirits."

"In April?" Mulcahy asked with a skeptical smile.

Hawkeye shrugged. "Maybe they got held up in traffic."

"Hey, would you knock it off?" Nellie said peevishly, glaring at the surgeon across the table. "What's so unusual about Charles offering to get someone else's breakfast?"

"Aside from everything?" Hawkeye answered. The nurse huffed. "Look, Nellie, no offense. I know you think Chahhls is the cat's pajamas. But this isn't standard behavior. Something seriously screwy is going on, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it, or my name isn't Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass." She looked at him strangely. "I mean Benjamin Franklin Pierce. Wait. What did I say?"

She sighed to herself, shaking her head. Then she let out a startled squeak as Winchester slid a tray in front of her. As he sat down beside her with his own tray, he arched an eyebrow at her. "A little jumpy this morning, aren't we, Malone?" he observed.

"Most people announce their presence with some sort of sound, you know," she said primly, hiding her flushed cheeks self-consciously from him as she picked up her fork. "But thank you, Charles. You really didn't need to trouble yourself."

"No trouble at all, my dear." Winchester tried his best to be interested in his breakfast, but gave up after it became evident that it wasn't worth the effort. He poked disinterestedly at the powdered eggs, then picked up the rock-hard biscuit and tapped it against the table before tossing it down again with a sigh.

Then, slowly, he looked up as he realized that Mulcahy and Hawkeye were staring openly at him.

"May I help you gentlemen?" he asked, his voice dry as the Sahara.

The priest looked over at Hawkeye, who began to babble, as was his habit whenever he was put on the spot. "We— Uhh, yeah, umm... So, uhh... So what's new, Chuck?"

Winchester rolled his eyes and turned to Nellie, who was making a valiant attempt to keep her food down. "Have you heard anything from your brother recently?" he inquired, apparently choosing to ignore Hawkeye.

She swallowed a mouthful of eggs with a wince. "Not recently, no," she replied, her eyes fixed on her tray. "They keep him fairly busy in his outfit. They've got him assisting the supply sergeant now. I suspect it's because he's the only one there who can keep track of the shipments. The sergeant himself is an absolute imbecile."

"As is so often the case with those in positions of authority," Winchester remarked. "One Colonel Horace Baldwin comes to mind," he added with a resentful curl of his lip.

Mulcahy recognized the name as belonging to the officer who was responsible for the thoracic surgeon's transfer to the 4077th, but he wasn't really listening. He was wondering why Nellie seemed to be purposely avoiding Winchester's gaze.

"Oh, lighten up, Chuckles," said Hawkeye. "If Baldwin hadn't sent you here, you would never have experienced the pleasure of our company."

Winchester let out a sardonic bark of laughter. "Pierce, your company offers all the charm and appeal of vacationing at a leper colony," he replied.

"Well, what about Father Mulcahy?" Hawkeye was watching the major very closely, as if to gauge his reaction. "What about... What about Nellie?"

The Bostonian glanced over at the nurse, who suddenly seemed intensely interested in her food. A hint of a smile played over his lips. "I can only say thank heaven for small mercies," he said, his voice unexpectedly warm.

_"Attention, all personnel!"_

There were simultaneous groans of dismay from one end of the mess tent to the other at the sound of the tinny voice coming over the P.A. system. _"Attention, all personnel! We've got ambulances in the compound, I repeat, ambulances in the compound. Hope you've got your galoshes, kids. You're gonna need 'em."_

Winchester sighed as he set down his fork. "And I was _so_ enjoying my repast," he muttered, hauling himself up from the table. He offered his hand to Nellie. "Shall we?"

There was a pause of perhaps a second, if even that long, as she stared at his hand. "Yes, of course," she said briskly, placing her small hand in the major's and allowing him to pull her to her feet.

As the two joined the throng that was now proceeding out of the mess tent, Mulcahy forced himself to drain his now ice-cold coffee and stood up, carefully tucking the origami duck inside his jacket. Hawkeye, on the other hand, remained seated at the table, staring off into space, with deep furrows in his brow.

"Hawkeye?" Mulcahy prompted. "Aren't you coming?"

The surgeon shook his head to himself, amazement written on his features. "I can't believe I didn't see it before," he murmured.

Mulcahy frowned. "See what?"

"Hmm?" Hawkeye looked up at him. "Oh, nothing, Father," he said quickly, heaving himself to his feet. He shoved his hat on his head and slapped the chaplain lightly on the back. "Come on, we'd better hustle."

Still frowning in confusion, Mulcahy buttoned up his raincoat and followed him reluctantly out the door, willing himself to face the downpour outside.

_Stay with me,_ he prayed silently as the heavy rain beat mercilessly down on his head and shoulders. _I'm going to need all the help I can get._

* * *

Nellie lost sight of Winchester almost immediately as she launched herself into the fray. Everywhere she looked, officers, nurses, and corpsmen were sliding around in the mud created by the recent rains. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she slogged forward toward the ambulances idling in the compound.

After a few near-pratfalls, she managed to slide to a halt beside B.J. Hunnicutt, who was assisting one of the corpsmen in lifting a stretcher out of the back of the ambulance. It was carrying a prone soldier, his uniform crusted with mud and dried blood. "Good God," she blurted, before she could stop herself. "This poor boy looks like a drowned rat. Why in the world would anyone want to engage in combat in this weather?"

"Haven't you heard?" the blond surgeon replied. "Pruney fingers and foot fungus are all the rage up at the front lines." He frowned as he examined the boy's shredded uniform more closely. "Hey, this kid isn't from one of our American troops."

The corpsman shook his head. "I heard the driver talking, sir. These boys are from the 28th Field Engineer Regiment. Part of the British Commonwealth."

"British Commonwealth, huh?" B.J. raised his eyebrows. "Maybe if we're lucky, we'll all be knighted."

Winchester came to join them, his own olive drab fatigues already splotched with scarlet from contact with the injured men. "Somehow I doubt that Her Highness bestows knighthoods upon court jesters," he remarked, making a rapid assessment of the soldier's injuries. "This man has several broken ribs and a punctured lung. He may well have other internal injuries, but we'll need to open him up to ascertain the extent of the damage. Get him inside and prepare him for surgery, quickly. _First_ priority."

"You're the boss, apparently," said B.J., hoisting one end of the stretcher and helping the corpsman carry the wounded man toward the O.R.

"Malone," said Winchester, attempting in vain to wipe the rain from his face with his damp sleeve, "there is a particularly obstinate soldier who refuses to let anyone near him. Perhaps you might be able to calm him down long enough to allow me to examine him. God knows it's not one of my areas of expertise."

She nodded quickly. "I'll do my best, Doctor," she answered. "Lead the way."

As they weaved their way through the crowd of people rushing back and forth in their duties, Nellie was obliged to grab hold of the hem of Winchester's jacket just to keep from getting separated from him. Unfortunately, this didn't prove to be especially beneficial for either parties. Without warning, Winchester stopped dead in his tracks to avoid colliding with one of the other nurses, and the sudden halt caused Nellie to lose her balance in the soupy mud. Before she knew what was happening, she went down, taking the major with her.

"Damn it," she muttered, wincing at the immediate, throbbing pain in her right wrist. "I'm sorry, Charles. Are you all right?"

Winchester was surprised and annoyed and covered in mud, but seemed otherwise unhurt. "Aside from the considerable blow to my dignity, you mean?" he shot back irritably. "I'm all right, more or less. What about you?"

"I'm fine," she said shortly, holding her arm tightly to her chest.

She heard a low whistle somewhere above her head. She craned her neck upward to see Hawkeye towering over her. Of course, he had just happened to be passing by and saw the whole thing. "Don't you kids know you shouldn't go swimming for at least an hour after eating?" he joked.

"Very amusing," Winchester said dryly as the chief surgeon grabbed his hands and pulled him upright. He turned to help Nellie, and his irritation faded as he noticed her favoring her arm. "Malone, are you injured?" he asked in concern.

Nellie shook her head quickly. "It's not bad," she assured him. "I'll get it looked at later. For now, just take me to that soldier."

"Not a chance," said Hawkeye, hooking his long arms around her midsection and hauling her to her feet. "First you need to see a doctor about that wrist."

She blew out an impatient breath. "We don't have time for this."

Ignoring her protests, Winchester gently took hold of her injured arm, lightly running his fingertips over the bones in her wrist. Nellie tried her best to ignore the strange, tingling sensation which grew in her stomach at his delicate touch. "Nothing broken," he murmured at length. "But you've definitely got yourself a rather nasty sprain."

"That settles it," Hawkeye said. "You're sitting this one out, Slugger."

"No, no way," she answered firmly. "If either of you sprained your wrist, you would operated one-handed, and you know it."

"Yeah, but we've got only four surgeons, and plenty of nurses," he countered. "We can manage without you, just this once."

"But—"

"This is not a matter for debate, Malone," said Winchester, and indeed, his tone allowed no room for argument. "Now go to your tent and change into some warm, dry clothes. There's nothing more you can do here."

Nellie returned his steely blue gaze for a long moment, torn in indecision. She was loath to sit back and do nothing while everyone else in the camp ran themselves ragged, but she also knew they were wasting precious time simply by standing around and bickering about it.

Petulantly, she snatched her arm out of Winchester's grasp. "Fine, just go," she muttered angrily.

His eyes softened, and he let his hand rest lightly on her shoulder, by way of an apology. She sighed, feeling guilty for snapping at him. "Go on, I'll be all right," she told him.

He gave her shoulder a brief squeeze, and then both surgeons were gone, lost in the pandemonium of activity.

Clutching her arm protectively, Nellie made her way back to her tent and peeled off her muddy, rain-soaked fatigues, a frustratingly difficult task when one had the use of only one hand. She rummaged around in her foot locker until she found her old flannel pajamas. After a considerable amount of growling and cursing, she managed to pull the bottoms on, but finding herself unable to negotiate the buttons, she threw the shirt aside and opted for a faded gray tank top. Then she sat down on her bunk and proceeded to sulk.

Scowling through her grubby spectacles, she examined her injured wrist. It was already swollen, and beginning to turn an ugly shade of purple. Cautiously, she tried to bend it, but the movement caused a sharp pain to lance through her arm all the way up to her elbow.

_Okay,_ she thought, gritting her teeth. _Now I know not to do that again._

She really shouldn't have lost her temper at Winchester. She would definitely have to apologize to him, the very next chance she got. After all, the incident had been her fault to begin with. Really, he had borne the whole thing with surprising equanimity. An involuntary shiver passed through her as she remembered the gentle, almost tender way he had held her wrist as he'd felt for any broken bones.

Then, abruptly, her scowl deepened. This was getting _completely_ out of hand.

Nellie had always prided herself on being a relatively level-headed person. She had never been the type to allow herself to be ruled by her emotions. She wasn't made of stone, by any means, but she tried more or less not to let her personal feelings interfere with good judgment and common sense.

Lately, however, that wasn't proving quite as easy as it had in the past.

Objectively, she knew, there was was a perfectly logical reason for the way Winchester had been affecting her recently. Constant association with a single member of the opposite sex for whom one had an affinity often had a tendency to produce certain... feelings. The very same thing had happened to her in her high school chemistry class, when her teacher had assigned Jimmy Mitchell as her lab partner. He was the only student in the class besides herself who cared remotely about the work, and they had gotten on well together; at least, until Nellie found herself paying more attention to his perfectly straight teeth and pretty brown eyes than to her assignments. Of course, Jimmy hadn't shown even the slightest romantic interest in her, which she supposed was for the best. If he had, she probably would have flunked right out of the class.

This, she kept telling herself, was no different. She wasn't _really_ infatuated with Charles Emerson Winchester. She was simply spending too much time in his company.

The more she thought about it, it was hardly surprising. In this sort of environment, it was almost impossible to go a single day without seeing the man. In fact, the last time she had spent an entire twenty-four-hour period out of his association had been when she had won that weekend trip to Seoul. And she had been bored out of her skull the entire time.

That was another thing, and something which could potentially be regarded as a complication: she _liked_ his company. To be sure, the 4077th was full of wonderful people, several of whom she had grown very fond. But Winchester was the only person in the camp to whom she could relate, who truly seemed to understand her. He himself had used the term _kindred spirits_, and Nellie was in full agreement with his choice of words. They had a deep intellectual connection, and she had never experienced that before.

And he was just so damned _charming_ when he wanted to be. Granted, there were also times when he could be so unbearably arrogant that it made her want to scream. But during the past few weeks — to be more specific, ever since that night in Post-Op — Winchester had been uncommonly sweet to her, and she knew it wasn't just her imagination; not if Hawkeye and Father Mulcahy had noticed it, as well. The bottom line was, Charles Winchester was a witty, sophisticated, highly intelligent man, and Nellie was only human. In hindsight, she really should have seen this coming a mile away.

Still, knowing the reason for her affliction didn't make it any easier to bear.

In fact, she was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore the way her traitorous body persisted in reacting when she was around Winchester. And it wasn't for lack of trying. She had been doing her utmost to disregard that ridiculous flutter her heart gave whenever he was near. Or the sudden shortness of breath which seemed to come over her every time he smiled. The fact that she couldn't control the way she felt just made it all the more maddening.

Acting on her feelings was, of course, completely out of the question. Nor could she confide them to anyone else. (Kellye, for her part, would never let her hear the end of it.) The only course of action was to keep these confusing and highly inconvenient emotions to herself, and pray that they would go away, and soon.

That shouldn't prove terribly hard, should it?

Out of the numberless random quotations which her mind had absorbed from a lifetime of reading, a quote from Voltaire's _Candide_ suddenly rose to the surface of her consciousness: _"Optimism is the madness of insisting that all is well when we are miserable."_

She really wished her brain would keep its mouth shut.

* * *

"Okay, Red, park it over here," said Pierce.

Charles watched as Malone removed her bathrobe, already soaked from her walk to the Swamp, and draped it over the back of the tattered, threadbare chair which stood slowly decomposing in the corner. She took a seat, clad in a tank top and a pair of frayed pajama bottoms, while Hunnicutt went over to the still and, to Charles's immediate alarm, poured a measure of homemade gut-rot into a martini glass.

He held it out to Malone, who eyed it suspiciously. "It'll help with the pain," he told her.

"In addition to killing a few brain cells," Charles added, glaring at the Californian in disapproval.

Pierce shrugged. "She's got more than enough to spare."

Annoyed, Charles plucked the glass from Hunnicutt's fingers and tossed its contents out the door. "If you must prescribe alcohol as a relaxant, I have an infinitely superior alternative to that turpentine you call gin."

Malone sighed as he retrieved his bottle of Napoleon brandy, which he kept carefully secreted from his tentmates at all times. Taking up one of the snifters from the desk beside his cot, he poured out a small amount and swirled it around a few times for good measure.

"Really, Charles," Malone protested as he placed the snifter in her good hand, "that's very sweet of you, but I'm fine. I don't need a drink. Besides, we all know if I have anything stronger than beer, I tend to get a little too, shall we say, chatty?"

He smiled at the allusion to her rather amusing performance at the New Year's party. "I myself prefer _garrulous_, or _loquacious_," he said, ignoring the somewhat impolite eye-roll he received in reply. "Go on, drink up. I daresay you'll need it to endure Pierce's ministrations."

"I've never heard complaints from any of the other nurses," the chief surgeon retorted.

Her brows knitted above her spectacles, Malone cautiously took a sip of the amber-colored liquid. "Oh, my," she said, her cheeks flushing rather charmingly, "that tastes just like Christmas." Charles chuckled.

Pierce dug around in the pockets of his coat and pulled out a rolled-up elastic bandage. "All right, Freckles, let's see that flipper," he instructed, lowering himself onto his cot across from her.

The redhead held out her right arm, and Charles cringed internally at the sight. The wrist was swollen, and the pale ivory of her skin had been replaced by an impressive variety of purples and greens and yellows. It looked incredibly painful, but the only indication of discomfort she had displayed so far was a slight wrinkle on her otherwise smooth forehead.

"This doesn't look too good," Pierce observed, holding her wrist in one bony hand. "You should have put ice on it right away. What's the matter with you, Nellie? You're supposed to be smart."

"Forgive me," she said dryly, taking another sip of brandy. "I was otherwise engaged in cursing my own clumsiness."

"You should just do what I do whenever something bad happens," Hunnicutt told her, pouring himself a drink from the still. "Blame Charles."

Malone's blush deepened. "It wasn't his fault," she murmured, her eyes on the glass in her hand.

"Your point?" said Hunnicutt.

She sighed in exasperation and fell silent as Pierce began to wrap her wrist. Charles found himself watching her face very closely for any signs of increased pain or distress. Suddenly he stiffened as she inhaled sharply through her teeth.

"Be careful, you idiot," he snapped at Pierce.

The three looked over at him in surprise, their eyebrows raised.

"I think you're the one who needs a relaxant, Charles," said Hunnicutt.

"You okay?" Pierce asked Malone in a low voice. She nodded tightly. "Sorry about that, kiddo."

Gradually, Charles realized that every one of his muscles was tensed, like a coiled spring. Perhaps there was a small grain of wisdom in Hunnicutt's advice, after all. After pouring a brandy for himself, he perused his record collection until he found something appropriately soothing. He removed the record from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable.

Malone smiled as the allegro movement of Mozart's Clarinet Quintet in A filled the Swamp. "I love this piece," she murmured, her eyes dreamy. "It's so sweet and airy and delicate, and at the same time so strangely sad."

"Please," Hunnicutt said, holding a finger to his lips, "_Mozart._"

As Pierce resumed his task, the stress and tension of the past several hours in the O.R. began to take its toll on Charles. Now, as he leaned against the edge of his desk, he was forced to concede that he had missed having Malone at his side in surgery, responding to his directions in her low, smooth voice. It was indescribably comforting.

"There." Pierce finished bandaging the girl's wrist. "Now I'd better not see you shooting craps for at least two weeks. If you feel the urge to gamble, talk to Father Mulcahy. He puts together a pretty good game of bingo."

She chuckled. "Thank you, Hawkeye."

He tousled her damp hair and stood up. "Anyone else feel like going to Rosie's? I'm in the mood for a blackened hamburger with a side of soggy fries."

"A burger? In my pajamas?" Malone asked dubiously.

"Are you crazy? Who would want to eat a hamburger wearing your pajamas?"

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks anyway, but I think I'll pass. I'm still full from the Spam à la King that Kellye brought me from the mess tent."

"Well, I'll go," said Hunnicutt, setting down his martini glass. "This music is depressing the hell out of me." He pulled on his raincoat and moved toward the door. "Don't wait up for us."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Charles replied sardonically.

Pierce paused for a moment in the open doorway, eyeing Charles carefully. "You two behave yourselves now," he said in a meaningful tone, before following Hunnicutt out the door.

There was an awkward silence, relieved only by the sounds of Mozart's strings and woodwinds. At length Charles shook his head. "The man is a lunatic," he muttered. "More brandy?"

"Oh, no. Thank you, though." Malone bit her lip. "Charles, I... I'm sorry about earlier today, when I lost my temper. To be honest, I was angry at myself, for getting injured when my help was really needed. But I wasn't upset with you."

Charles felt himself smile as he sipped his brandy. "I must confess, I'd already forgotten about it. But your self-recrimination is much appreciated."

She snorted. "I don't know why I tolerate your company," she said with a smirk.

His smile widened. "Lack of options, I suspect," he replied fondly.

Another, longer silence passed between them as Malone's sage green eyes met his. Suddenly the air in the tent felt inexplicably hot and close.

He was on thin ice, and he was painfully aware of it.

For some time now, Charles had been very, very close to harboring dangerous thoughts toward his little Irish friend; especially, he had to admit, after her somewhat remarkable transformation. So close that he had been forced to set some boundaries for himself. There was to be no more hugging, for one. No more late-night declarations of affection, either. And under no circumstances could he allow himself to be alone with her.

That was certainly working out well.

Peripherally, Charles was aware that he could no longer hear the record player. He realized with a small shock that it was because the sound of the rain drumming on the roof of the Swamp had gradually drowned it out. Malone stood up and walked over to the door, peering out the little window. "Goodness," she exclaimed. "It's coming down in buckets out there. I hope Hawkeye and B.J. made it to Rosie's before it started. At any rate, they're trapped there now. They'd be out of their minds to try to walk back in this deluge."

Charles was barely listening. He couldn't seem to stop staring at the constellation of freckles which dusted Malone's shoulders. Good heavens, why did she have to wear that thin, sleeveless little scrap of clothing which clung to her slight, willowy frame and made her look so... so...?

That did it. Something had to be done about this, and quickly.

He stretched out a hand toward his own blue dressing gown, which was draped over his desk chair, with the intent of offering it to her. At that moment, there was a sudden, blinding flash which lit up the tent for an instant, followed soon after by a low, rolling boom.

_Shelling?_ he thought, frowning in confusion. _Impossible. No one would be flying in this weather._ But even as the thought crossed his mind, he realized what it was.

He turned to Malone, and was taken aback to find her rooted to the floor, looking stricken. "Was that what I think it was?" she asked, her eyes wide and fearful.

"Lightning," he said, setting down his brandy and coming to join her at the window. "And fairly close, if I'm not mistaken."

"That's what I was afraid of." She gave a miserable groan. "This just hasn't been my day."

Charles regarded her with some surprise. "Don't tell me you're frightened by thunder, Malone."

She nodded sheepishly. "Ever since I was little. Thunderstorms are extremely uncommon in the Pacific Northwest, especially in the Portland area. I suppose I just never got used to them." There was another flash of lightning, and she flinched as the accompanying crash of thunder followed. "_Jesus_ Lord!" she exclaimed, then cringed at his censorious expression. "Sorry. I just... I can't even begin to explain how much I hate thunder."

"More than artillery shellings?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. She nodded again, her eyes tightly closed. "How is that possible?"

She opened one eye. "I never said it was a rational fear," she said defensively.

Charles shook his head; he would never cease to be amazed at the contradictions and inconsistencies of his fellow humans. As he looked down at Malone, her arms crossed over her chest, he frowned again. "Are you aware that your fingers are purple?" he asked her.

She held up her bandaged wrist. "So they are," she remarked. "That can't be good, can it?"

He growled in annoyance. "Pierce," he muttered, taking her hand gingerly in his. "I knew I should have done this myself. He's wrapped it far too tightly. It's fortunate that the man is a surgeon; he would make an appalling nurse."

Malone stood silently as he bent over her arm, removing the bandage and re-wrapping her injured wrist as carefully as he could. Her damp hair smelled faintly of... What was that? Jasmine? Or was it cherry blossom? He had to make a conscious effort not to lean closer.

At length he finished, releasing her hand to her. "How does that feel?" he asked.

"Much better, thank you," she said quietly. There was still a faint pink tint adorning her cheeks. From the brandy, no doubt.

Suddenly there was another crack of lightning, and this time the thunder was immediate and deafening and alarmingly close. Malone moved instinctively closer to Charles, the fingers of her uninjured hand clutching at his shirt. Without thinking, he drew his arms around her. She leaned into him, her small body rigid with fear. "Shhh, it's all right," he murmured soothingly. "It's all right. It will pass."

She swallowed. "I must seem so ridiculous to you," she said, ashamed.

Charles could feel her trembling slightly, and an instinctive urge to comfort her, to allay her fears, overrode all other thoughts. Adjusting his hold on her so as not to cause discomfort to her bandaged wrist, he pulled her closer, until his chin came to rest on top of her head. "Not at all," he replied, his voice unexpectedly husky.

He shivered as he felt Malone's breath flit across his neck. Through the thin fabric of her tank top, her skin was deliciously warm beneath his splayed fingers. As yet another roll of thunder crashed overhead, her own fingertips dug into his back, and the sudden, intense, indescribable emotion that consumed him succeeded in stopping the breath in his throat.

He wasn't just overstepping the boundaries he had set for himself. He was pole-vaulting over them. And somehow, he didn't care one whit.

Whispering reassurances into the shell of her ear, Charles allowed one hand to drop to her waist, while the other threaded itself through her short mop of hair. A low whimper escaped her, and he lowered his chin and pressed his lips to the crown of her head. The scent and the feel of those soft red curls were enough to drive him mad. As he held her body flush against his own, his fingers unconsciously brushing the nape of her neck, he was certain she must be able to feel the frantic beating of his heart.

"Charles...?"

He thrilled at the sound of his name on her lips. "Yes, Malone," he rasped, his eyes tightly shut.

"...I think the rain has stopped."

His eyes snapped open again. Reluctantly, he released his hold on her, and they both looked out the window. Sure enough, the torrential downpour had been reduced to a light drizzle.

Malone cleared her throat, her gaze fixed on the floor. "I-I'd better go back to my tent, before it starts again," she said awkwardly. Her cheeks were almost as red as her hair.

Dimly, Charles realized that letting her leave was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do. "Of course," he heard himself say.

He picked up his thick blue dressing gown and helped her into it, being careful not to bump her sprained wrist. With a rather weak attempt at a smile, he gave his customary half-bow, out of habit more than anything else. "Good night, Malone," he said, much more calmly than he felt.

She surprised him by leaning into him again, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Good night, Charles," she replied softly, her lips lingering near his skin.

As he watched her hurry quickly across the compound in the direction of the nurses' tent, his dressing gown making her look even smaller, Charles felt suddenly cold, and unaccountably bereft. Slowly, he made his way over to his cot and sat down, staring blankly into space. He had no notion of how long he continued to sit there before he became aware that he was wringing his hands in his lap.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he lowered his head and passed his hands through his hair.

His family was going to murder him.

* * *

A/N: Whew. Okay, that wasn't quite as long as the last chapter. But it was still pretty long. Wow.

So, I realize I exercised a bit of creative license in implying that Father Mulcahy has what is now referred to as Seasonal Affective Disorder. But I didn't think it would be too much of a stretch. And it is a very real condition, which can affect anyone. Other than that... I don't have a whole lot else to say. Maybe you do. Do be kind enough to let me know what you thought.

-Octopus


	17. Not Now, My Soul Is in Torment

A/N: Thank you, my peeps, for your wonderful reviews! I'm afraid, however, that this chapter will be a bit shorter than the previous few. Also, it didn't occur to me until Amymimi pointed it out, but it seems that my last chapter contained every single major cast member, _except_ Margaret! I can't believe I did that. Well, rest assured that she'll definitely be in this chapter. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own _M*A*S*H_. Other than the DVD set.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Seventeen: Not Now, My Soul Is in Torment

If there was one thing that never failed to make Margaret uneasy, it was the thought of leaving the 4077th in someone else's hands. Of course, she knew that Colonel Potter was in charge, and there was no question that she couldn't have asked for a better commanding officer if she had chosen one herself. But even though Potter was technically the head honcho, the nurses were another story. Although she had never had any children, she imagined that the relationship between herself and her nurses was not dissimilar to that of a parent and its offspring. Not only was Margaret personally responsible for her staff, but she was also fiercely protective of them.

And the prospect of leaving them to manage the hospital without her, even for just a few days, was one that always tied Margaret's stomach into knots.

"Now remember, the nurses are not allowed to trade shifts _except_ in the event of an illness," she said as she paced back and forth in her small tent. "I don't want to hear about anyone covering for anyone else, just because one of you had a date. That sort of thing is totally unprofessional."

Lieutenant Kellye stood deferentially to one side, her dark almond eyes following the major's anxious perambulations. "Take it from me, ma'am," she answered. "Nothing like that is going to happen while you're gone."

"See that it doesn't." Margaret paused, wracking her brains to remember all of the points she'd wanted to cover with the lieutenant. It was not that she didn't trust Kellye; on the contrary, she had always been impressed with the young Hawaiian nurse. She was diligent, hard-working, respectful, and good with the patients. Deep down, Margaret knew she could rely on Kellye. But that didn't make this trip to Tokyo any easier.

A sudden thought occurred to her, and she snapped her fingers. "Oh. Now about Sergeant Sullivan."

"Major..."

"Make sure that his dressings are changed _every day_. You don't necessarily have to be the one to do it, but _someone_ has to. I know we're running low on gauze, but that doesn't matter. We don't want him to develop another infection. If Zale gives you any trouble, just tell him you have a direct order from me to get as much gauze as you need. That should shut him up."

"Major," said Kellye, in a slightly firmer tone, "with all due respect, all of the nurses have already been briefed about Sergeant Sullivan. We all want him to pull through, and we'll make sure that he does."

Margaret gave a distracted nod as she resumed her pacings. "Fine, fine," she said dismissively, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Now let's see, what else...?"

Kellye stepped forward and laid a light hand on the major's shoulder, effectively halting her in her tracks. "Don't worry, ma'am," she assured her. "You'll only be gone a few days. Everything will be fine. You can count on me."

As she met the younger nurse's composed, self-assured gaze, she felt herself relax a little. "I know I can, Lieutenant," she replied, permitting herself a small smile. She let out a pent-up sigh. "I know I should feel honored to be able to attend this seminar, but to be honest, I can't help dreading the whole idea. The truth is, I don't suppose I'll ever get used to leaving my staff."

"Well, if it's any consolation," said Kellye, "you've trained us well."

She shot her a mischievous grin. "I have, haven't I?"

There was a faint scratch at the door, and Kellye turned toward the noise. "What's that?"

Margaret was unconcerned. "Oh, it's probably just Irving. He likes to come here to get out of the rain. You can let him in if you want."

The nurse opened the door, and a gray-and-white blur shot inside. With a chuckle, Margaret grabbed a towel from the back of her chair and knelt down, drying the dog's bedraggled fur.

Kellye watched with a smile. "You sure have a way with animals, Major," she remarked.

"I always wanted a dog," she admitted as she picked up the scruffy mutt and scratched it behind the ears. "But being in a military family, we moved around too much. Caring for a dog just wasn't practical. And of course, when I joined the Army, I wasn't allowed to have a pet." She gave a shrug. "So instead, I got a husband." Kellye laughed outright at this. "In hindsight, a dog is a much safer bet," she added.

"Yes, ma'am," said Kellye, still laughing. "Was there anything else you wanted to brief me on?"

"No, Lieutenant, that will be all. Thank you."

Kellye opened the door again, to find herself face-to-face with another visitor. Or, more accurately, face-to-chest. "Oh, hello, Major Winchester," she said with some surprise.

"Good evening, Lieutenant Kellye," came the courteous reply as the tall surgeon gave her his usual half-bow. "I was rather hoping to speak with Major Houlihan, but it appears my timing is somewhat inopportune."

"Actually, I was just leaving," Kellye told him.

"I would be more than happy to return at a more convenient time."

"Oh, just come inside, Charles," said Margaret, rolling her eyes. "You're getting soaked out there. The last thing we need is one of our doctors to catch a cold."

Charles gave a scoff, but Margaret couldn't help noticing that he wasted no time in stepping inside out of the rain. "Come, Margaret, you know as well as I do that a person cannot contract the cold virus simply from _being_ cold."

"Ah," Kellye piped in, raising a finger, "but a drop in body temperature _can_ lower a person's immunity, making him more susceptible to illness."

He shot her an unamused look. "A hit, a very palpable hit," he said dryly. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"You're welcome, sir," she said breezily as she moved to the door. "Good night, Majors. Enjoy your seminar, Major Houlihan."

"I'll try. Good night, Kellye."

Charles held the door for the nurse as he bade her good night, and Margaret suppressed a smile. Whatever the major's other irritating foibles, there was no denying that chivalry and proper etiquette were as natural to him as breathing. As much as she hated to admit it, there were quite a few men in her experience who could learn a thing or two from him.

She set Irving down on the ground, and the little dog sniffed at Charles's boots for a moment before curling up in the corner. Charles raised his eyebrows. "Charming," he remarked. "I don't suppose you would be willing to trade your tentmate for one of mine?"

She snorted. "Not a chance."

"I suspected as much." Margaret pulled the chair away from her vanity mirror and gestured for him to take a seat, but he shook his head. "Thank you, no. I've no intention of taking up any more of your time than necessary. I merely wished to speak to you before you left for Tokyo."

"Well, I'm still here, as you can see," she answered, folding her arms. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

He didn't reply at once; evidently, he was pausing to gather his thoughts. When he did speak, his words seemed very carefully chosen. "I've been given to understand from Colonel Potter that you are in charge of scheduling the nurses' shift rotations."

Margaret nodded. "That's right. Why?"

There was a strange sort of hesitation in his manner, which was entirely unlike him. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I wonder if I might ask a small favor of you," he said at last.

_Of course._ She should have known from his overly polite manner that he wanted something. "Just how small are we talking?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

"Trifling, I assure you. Insignificant. Won't affect you in the slightest." For some reason, he seemed reluctant to meet her gaze.

"Well, tell me already," she said impatiently.

Charles sighed. "I need... That is, I..." He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as if he were developing a sudden headache. "I've no idea how else to say this. Margaret, I would be very grateful to you if you would... alter one of the nurses' shifts, so that they would not coincide so often with my own."

Margaret lapsed immediately into officer mode. "Are you having a problem with one of my nurses?" she asked sharply.

"Not at all," he hastened to assure her. "On the contrary, I can say without reserve that all of the nurses are quite exemplary. It's simply that... owing to a minor personality conflict, it has become somewhat difficult to work with one nurse in particular."

"Well?" she prompted. "Who is it?"

For a long time he didn't answer. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Malone," he finally said in a low voice.

"_Malone?_" Margaret stared at him in unconcealed surprise. It couldn't be true. For one thing, Charles had 'minor personality conflicts' with everyone _but_ Malone. His fondness for her was common knowledge at the 4077th; they were practically as inseparable as Pierce and Hunnicutt. If there had been a disagreement between the two, everyone would already know about it.

Nevertheless, she was compelled to ask anyway. "Did you have a falling-out?"

Charles shook his head, his gaze fixed on his boots. "Not exactly," he murmured.

To say that Margaret was confused would have been a gross understatement. "Then why don't you want to share Post-Op duty with her?" she persisted.

"Margaret, please," he said quietly. "I would prefer not to go into particulars."

As he raised his eyes to meet hers, she was slightly taken aback by the pain and distress she saw in them. And then suddenly everything became inescapably clear to her.

When it came to her nurses, nothing got past Margaret. She saw what lifted their spirits, and what made them angry or hurt or upset. She had seen the way Malone had begun to look at Charles when she thought no one was watching. She had caught the slight flush on the redhead's face whenever the tall Bostonian graced her with one of his all-too-rare smiles. But, despite a few inklings now and then, Margaret hadn't seriously suspected that the feeling was mutual.

Until now.

At first, she couldn't understand why Charles apparently regarded this development as a bad thing. After all, he and Malone seemed pretty darned perfect for each other. He understood the way her eccentric mind worked, and she didn't appear to be bothered by his infuriating superiority complex. Besides which, Malone was an intelligent, polite, well-spoken young woman. She seemed the ideal candidate to bring home to meet the parents.

Then again, from what she had heard, Charles didn't exactly have the most accepting parents. In fact, she could recall an instance when, upon learning that he and Hunnicutt had been asked to write a paper for a prestigious medical journal, Charles had remarked that his father would be "so filled with pride that he _may_ smile". They might not take too kindly to the idea of their son proposing to taint their distinguished bloodline with such... Irish stock. And judging from the man's current demeanor, he must have been thinking along the same lines.

No wonder he was beating himself up about all this. _Oh, Charles,_ she thought with an unexpected pang of sympathy.

"All right," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "I won't pry. I'm sure you have your reasons."

Charles nodded minutely. "Thank you, Margaret," he replied, sounding indescribably weary. "I'd appreciate it if you would keep this between the two of us. If Malone were to find out, I fear she might come to the wrong conclusion. I wouldn't want her to think that I..." He swallowed. "That I'm upset with her in any way."

"Don't worry, Charles," she told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Our conversation won't go beyond this tent."

He nodded again, pressing against his eyes with the heels of his palms. She stepped back. "I'll see about changing the duty rosters the minute I get back from Tokyo," she assured him.

Charles thanked her again and took his leave. It wasn't often that Margaret felt sorry for the insufferable surgeon, but as she watched him go, his head sunk between his shoulders as if under an invisible burden, she felt her heart begin to ache.

_Poor guy,_ she thought. _If only parents knew how big a part they played in screwing up their kids._

* * *

Mail delivery was, without a doubt, the highlight of the week at the 4077th. More to the point, it was the highlight of the week for Max Klinger. Ever since his promotion — or demotion, depending on how one looked at it — to company clerk, he had noticed a direct correllation between the regularity of correspondence and the general mood of the camp. When the mail arrived without a hitch, he couldn't be happier, because it meant that everyone was happy with him. But if there was a delay in the delivery, even for reasons which had nothing to do with him, it was always Klinger's head that ended up on the chopping block. A smaller man would have found such fickleness a tad insulting.

Today, however, Klinger was the man with the mail bag. Today, Klinger was a _god._

"All right, kids, gather round," he announced as he stood in the doorway of the mess tent, dripping from the rain. "Your savior is here at last, to deliver you from mind-numbing boredom."

As it happened, his declaration was hardly necessary; at his entrance, the other patrons turned and, catching sight of the mail bag slung over the clerk's shoulder, gave a great collective cheer. Before he could prepare himself, half the population of the mobile hospital swarmed around him, chattering in eager anticipation.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! One at a time, for crying out loud!" He clambered onto one of the benches in order to escape the greedy clutches of his newly-acquired fan club. "_Please._ I know you adore me, but let's all remember our manners. Wait until I've called your name before you shower me with praise."

"Come on, Klinger!" shouted a voice. "Just give us our mail, before we use your nose as a letter opener!"

"Fame is so fleeting," he remarked with a histrionic sigh. He reached down into the depths of the canvas bag and dug out a handful of letters, which he had already alphabetized in his office. "Adams!"

A hand reached up out of nowhere and snatched the envelope right out of his hands. For a moment all he could do was blink. "You're welcome," he said flatly. His enthusiasm for his current task was rapidly beginning to ebb. He cleared his throat and continued in a more subdued tone: "Okay, Albright... Anderson... Barnes... Bigelow..."

At length he got to the H's, of which there were only two. "Houlihan!"

"That's _Major_ Houlihan to you, Corporal," the head nurse corrected with a show of bossiness, the effect of which was somewhat softened by the slight smile on her lips. Her recent trip to Tokyo had apparently agreed with her.

"A thousand apologies, Madame Major," he conceded graciously. He held up the package addressed with her name and gave it a little shake. "Ooh! Sounds like chocolates. I'll take the ones you don't like."

"Give me that," she said impatiently, plucking it from his grasp.

Klinger shook his head. "One lousy 'thank you'. That's all I ask." He pulled out the next package. "Hunnicutt!"

His statement was met with silence. He frowned. "Hunnicutt?" he repeated. "Yo, where's Captain Hunnicutt?"

"I think he's still asleep," somebody replied.

The clerk rolled his eyes heavenward. "How do you like that? The _nerve_ of some guys. Just because he was up all night with the patients in Post-Op, he thinks he can get away with sleeping past seven."

He hopped down from the bench and headed to the door, to the protesting cries of the nurses and corpsmen who hadn't yet received their mail. "Relax, I'll be right back. Go eat your food. After all, they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day." He ducked, narrowly avoiding a flying biscuit. "Savages," he muttered.

Taking a deep breath, Klinger took off at a brisk pace in the direction of the Swamp, hunched over his mail bag to protect it from the rain. There hadn't been a dry day at the 4077th in over a month, and it was becoming more and more difficult for him to remain upbeat. And he knew he wasn't alone. Colonel Potter, for one, was more than a little annoyed at the constant downpour; the slippery mud made it impossible for him to safely take Sophie for a ride. Nellie didn't seem to mind, despite the fact that the rain was indirectly responsible for her sprained wrist, which was still somewhat tender. But then again, God love her, the girl was apparently crazier than a soup sandwich.

Pausing outside the Swamp, Klinger gave a light rap on the door. He didn't want to wake anyone, but he wasn't too keen on getting a chewing-out from Winchester for strolling in unannounced, either. When there was no response, he slipped quietly inside and found the tent nearly empty, save for one occupant. Tiptoeing over to the bunk in the far corner, he placed the package on an adjacent chair and turned to leave.

"Whassa matter?" B.J. mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"Not a thing," Klinger assured him in a hushed whisper. "Go back to sleep, Captain."

B.J. didn't seem to hear him. He rolled over on his cot and blinked up at the clerk. His sandy blond hair was jutting out in multiple directions, and even his mustache was disheveled. "Is it choppers?" he asked blearily after a moment.

Klinger shook his head. "No choppers. No casualties. Just bringing you your mail, sir. So you just go on back to—"

He never got to finish his sentence. In an instant, B.J. had launched himself out of bed, grabbed the surprised corporal by the shoulders, and planted a kiss on both of his olive cheeks. "Klinger, you're a peach!" he gushed, ignoring his attempts to pry himself free. "You're a gem! You're the paragon of perfection!"

"All right, all right, I'm the pelican of whatever!" Klinger exclaimed, shoving the surgeon away. "Get off of me already! There could be nurses outside!"

B.J. stood in his shirt and boxers, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. "Where is it, where is it?" he asked, eager as a little kid.

"It's over there on the chair. Sheesh." Klinger watched as the man snatched up the paper-wrapped parcel, drinking in the sight of the Mill Valley postmark. "I've never seen anyone get so excited over one measly package."

The captain shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. "Oh, Klinger," he said as he carefully peeled away the brown paper. "You poor, misguided creature. This isn't just a package. This is my salvation. This proves that somewhere across the ocean, there's a beautiful, golden-haired goddess of a woman still waiting for me to come back home." He opened the box and drew in a sharp breath. "A woman who makes the best damned oatmeal cookies on the whole western seaboard."

Klinger couldn't help smiling at his unrestrained glee. "I guess I should be thankful you're not mad at me for waking you up," he remarked, taking a seat on Hawkeye's vacant bunk. "Lately it seems like this whole camp's got it in for me. I like to think it's the rain, and not my general incompetence, you know?"

B.J. chuckled under his breath. "It's the rain. Trust me. In San Francisco, if it rains for more than a week straight, everyone starts to gripe. Only griping's not enough. They've got to have someone to blame." He picked up a cookie and took a bite. "I've heard it all. My next-door neighbor even blamed the Spanish settlers for founding the city too far north of the equator."

Klinger laughed. "No kidding?"

"True as gospel." He held the box out to him. "Cookie?"

"Don't mind if I do, Snookums."

As Klinger bit into the cookie — and nearly swooned as the chewy, crumbly confection hit his tastebuds — he couldn't help feeling just a little bit jealous. The entire time he'd been married to Laverne, she had never once sent him any baked goods from home. True, she'd always been a terrible cook, but it was the thought that counted. Besides, the bakery was only a few blocks down the street. Would it have killed her to mail him a box of doughnuts every once in a while?

Watching B.J. as he excitedly unfolded the letter from Peg which had been tucked under the cookies, Klinger found himself hoping that someday, he would have a family of his own, who loved him as much as B.J.'s family loved him.

God, he needed to get out of Korea.

He rose to his feet, hefting the mail bag onto his shoulder. B.J. glanced up from his letter at him. "Want another?" he asked, wiping the crumbs from his mustache.

"Oh, no thanks. I've got to deliver the rest of the mail, before the camp decides to have a Lebanese barbecue."

He headed for the door, but the surgeon's voice stopped him. "Hey, Klinger," he said, his mouth full. "Don't let the others get to you. They all know you're doing a bang-up job. Radar would be proud as punch."

The clerk smiled. "Thanks, B.J.," he answered gratefully.

But B.J. was already too deeply engrossed in his letter to hear him. In fact, it was doubtful whether he would have heard a whole squadron of enemy aircraft passing overhead. With a shrug, Klinger stepped back out into the compound.

Getting back to the job at hand, he continued to dole out the letters and packages to the members of the camp. As he did so, he tried his best to maintain a sunny disposish and all that, even in spite of the crummmy weather, but his smile was somewhat forced. When at last he got to the first on his list of M's, however, he broke out into a genuine grin.

"Oh, Ma-_lo_-ooone?" he called through the door of the nurses' tent.

Nellie greeted him with a bright smile. "Hey, Maximus," she said cheerily, opening the door wide. "Come on in." Klinger was only too glad to acquiesce, if only to get out of the rain for a few minutes. It seemed that, for the time being, she had the tent to herself. "I just made some tea. Would you like some?"

He sighed. "I'd better not. At this rate, I'm never going to get the mail delivered."

"I'd be happy to help," she told him over her shoulder as she poured some tea into a couple of old, dented tin mugs.

Klinger raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Sure. Just give me half of whatever you've got there," she said with a nod toward his mail bag. "I'll take care of it."

"In other words, you're going to chuck it into the cesspool?"

She hit him. "You beast."

"Ow. All right, all right. Here." He passed her a stack of correspondence, and she in turn handed him a steaming mug of tea. "Thanks, Nell. You're a stand-up guy."

"Thank you," she said, very primly.

Klinger smiled as he raised the mug to his lips. First cookies, and now piping hot tea, and all in one morning. He had to admit, he had some pretty swell friends.

"Oh, and before I forget—" He set down his tea briefly to retrieve a letter from his bag. "_Pour vous, mademoiselle_," he said as he held it out to her.

Nellie reached out and took the envelope from his fingers. She grinned as she read the name on the return address. "It's from Danny! Thank you, Max." He took a seat on her cot and watched as she tore it open and unfolded a single sheet of paper. As she read, her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "He's being transferred," she said, her eyes wide behind her glasses. "To the 28th Medical Dispensary in Seoul! That's only thirty miles from here!"

"Hey, that's great!" Klinger exclaimed. "We get half of our supplies from the 28th. You'll get to see him all the time!" A sudden, sobering thought occurred to him. "He knows you and I are okay now, right? He's not going to come here and rough me up, is he?"

She chuckled. "Relax, you're safe," she told him with a casual wave of her hand. "As a matter of fact, I told him that I broke up with you. I figured he would be less angry with you if he believed that it was my decision."

Klinger wasn't sure whether he should be touched or offended. "How... considerate of you."

"Think nothing of it." As she sat down beside him and continued to read her brother's letter, her brow furrowed. Slowly, she set down her mug. "You know," she said pensively, "I haven't been all that worried about Danny, knowing that he was stationed all the way down in Pusan. But we're awfully close to the front lines up here. What if something happens to him? What if he gets caught in a conflict on the way here? What if—"

"Take it easy, Nell," Klinger told her soothingly. "He'll be fine. Nothing's going to happen to him."

"Well, what about Charles?" she countered. "On his very first day in Korea, the jeep he was traveling in got blown to pieces by enemy fire. And that wasn't even fifteen miles from here. He could have _died_, Max."

"It's not like we would've known the difference," he pointed out, then cringed as she shot him a withering glare. "Only kidding," he said weakly. "Look, don't worry. Danny will be all right. That kind of stuff happens a lot less often than everyone says. Trust me."

Nellie gave him a crooked smile. "You're usually a much better liar, Max," she said wryly. "But thank you anyway."

"Any time, kid."

Her smile faded, and her expression became abstracted. "Did Charles get any mail?" she asked abruptly.

Klinger blinked, somewhat thrown. "Uhh, I think so. Yeah, he did, now that you mention it. Something from his stock broker." He watched as she shuffled through the stack of envelopes he'd given her to deliver. "Why do you ask?"

She didn't answer right away. For a moment she simply stared at the letter with Winchester's name on it. "Oh... No reason in particular," she replied at last, "except that it'll give me a good excuse to talk to him. I haven't seen very much of him lately, and on the rare occasions that I have, he's seemed... sort of sad." She shook her head. "Considering that he already abhors practically everything about this place, that's saying something."

Klinger was silent. The truth was, she hadn't been the only one to notice Winchester's strange behavior recently. He had been unusually reclusive, keeping to himself and taking most of his meals in the Swamp. True, he'd never been particularly friendly with anyone at the 4077th. But Nellie was the exception to the rule. She was the apple of the major's eye.

Now, however, something seemed to have changed. If Klinger didn't know better, he'd almost think that Winchester was avoiding her.

She heaved a sigh, jolting him from his thoughts. "I wish I had the nerve to just come out and ask him what's bothering him," she said. "But you know how reticent he can be."

He frowned. "Reti-what?"

"Reticent. You know, private."

"I'm not a private, I'm a corporal."

Nellie growled in frustration. "_Max!_ That's not what I—"

He chuckled. "Relax, kid, I'm just jerking your chain." She rolled her eyes, and he reached over and patted her on the knee. "I wouldn't worry too much about Major Winchester if I were you. He has his own way of dealing with his problems. As long as you give him his space, he'll be all right eventually."

"You think so?"

Klinger nodded, trying to convince himself he was right, if only for Nellie's sake. "I know so," he said in his most reassuring tone. "Besides," he added, "I'm sure it's nothing important. His butler back in Boston probably got caught stealing from the wine cellar or something."

* * *

Charles was in agony.

Despite all of his efforts to limit his association with Malone, his dangerous attachment to her didn't seem to be waning. If anything, it had grown stronger than ever. Although Margaret had been true to her word, and most of his Post-Op shifts were mercifully Malone-free, it still wasn't enough. Even when she was not with him in physical form, she was always on his mind.

At first he had tried to maintain an objective view of the situation, tried to tell himself that his feelings were merely the result of chemical reactions occurring in his brain. That his body was simply responding to the autonomic actions of his nervous system. That what he was experiencing was caused by the sheer amount of time he had been spending in the woman's company, and compounded by the fact that she also happened to be moderately attractive. That no _real_ emotions were involved.

Damned if it did him any good.

The most difficult challenge was in pretending that nothing was amiss. While he was fairly certain that Malone didn't suspect anything, it was obvious that his behavior had not gone unobserved by her. More than once, he had caught her gazing at him with an oddly searching expression, as if she were trying to read his thoughts. It was disconcerting, to say the least. And what was worse, he had to make a conscious effort to act like he didn't notice.

It wasn't until the incident with the young Irish soldier and the little Korean boy that everything finally came together for Charles. It was also when he nearly fell apart.

It was inevitable that he would eventually end up sharing a shift with her, and it happened to be when Miles Sullivan was finally beginning to recover. He had been among the regiment that had been brought in the day Malone had injured her wrist. The young sergeant had taken several shell fragments in the abdomen, and he had been forced to remain out in the rain for so long that he had developed a bacterial infection.

The poor lad had spent weeks in a high fever, passing in and out of consciousness and alternating between lucidity and delirium. No one knew if he was going to make it. But at last, his fever broke, and he seemed to be beginning to pull through. However, by the time he regained control of his faculties, the rest of his regiment were already long gone.

Sullivan had been depressed to learn that all of his friends had left, and understandably so. That is, until a little Korean boy was brought in with a broken leg.

The boy had been walking home with his grandfather and had taken a shortcut through a minefield. His grandfather stepped on a landmine and was killed instantly, but the boy survived, with multiple lacerations and a fractured femur. Some inhabitants from a nearby village had found him and, not knowing what else to do, had brought him to the 4077th. Charles had operated on the child himself. He'd guessed his age at around five or six years old.

Upon learning what had happened, Sergeant Sullivan took it upon himself to comfort the boy, whose name was Jun Lee-Cho. The two took to each other immediately, to the delight of everyone. It didn't seem to matter that Sullivan could not speak a word of Korean, nor Jun a word of English; the language barrier didn't faze either of them. When Sullivan was strong enough to sit up in bed, he would read letters from his family aloud to the boy, who didn't understand any of it but apparently didn't care. He even taught Jun to play Cat's Cradle. Nobody could figure out how.

One evening, when Charles had managed to last nearly an entire day without encountering the sole reason for his current affliction, he had been perturbed to learn that he would once again be sharing the night shift with Malone. Luckily, he found a way of dealing with it, simply by sitting at the desk in the corner and pretending to be absorbed in a medical journal. It was a cowardly move on his part, but at least it worked.

While he did his best to appear enthralled by some article about the very latest in prosthetic limbs, Malone had little alternative but to occupy herself by other means. Pulling up a chair beside Sullivan's bed, she and the young sergeant chatted about nothing in particular, while Jun sat in the adjacent bed, propped up by several pillows, fiddling with the bit of string Sullivan had given him. As the Post-Operative Ward was empty except for the four of them, it was nearly impossible for Charles not to overhear their conversation.

"So what's an Irishman like yourself doing in an English regiment, anyway?" asked Malone as she sat by Sullivan's bedside, her chin in her hand.

He shrugged. "Bit of a long story, that," he replied, putting his hands behind his head. "My old man was Irish, but my mother was born in Leeds. That's where they met. They moved to Ireland after they were married, and I was born a year later."

"Where in Ireland?"

Sullivan grinned. "In a neat little town they call Belfast."

"Really?" Malone perked up at this. "Let me guess. A sad misfortune came over you, which caused you to stray from the land."

"Far away from my friends and relations, betrayed by the black velvet band," he finished, and they both burst into laughter.

Charles frowned in confusion behind his medical journal; he had absolutely no idea what they were talking about.

"Now how on earth do you know that song then, young Ms. Malone?" asked Sullivan.

"Oh, are you kidding?" she said, amusement in her voice. "_My_ old man was as Irish as they come. He taught my brother and me every single drinking song in existence. We used to sing 'Whiskey in the Jar' at parties, which our father found hilarious. The neighbors... not so much."

Sullivan chuckled. "Yankee by birth, Irish in spirit, eh?"

"Precisely. You name an Irish song, and I can sing it."

"Is that so?" The soldier brought his arms down and met her confident gaze with a challenging look of his own. "You wouldn't happen to have my personal effects here at this hospital, would you?"

Charles glanced up at Malone to find her regarding the sergeant with a furrowed brow. "Yes, I believe so," she said slowly. "How is this at all relevant to—"

"If you would be good enough to suss out wherever they've stowed my stuff, you'll find an old tin whistle," he told her. "Bring it back here, and then you can put your money where your mouth is."

Malone grinned at him. "You're on."

To the best of his recollection, Charles had never actually heard Malone sing before. Which was odd, considering that she was whistling all the time. In fact, it wasn't at all uncommon to hear her whistling a few bars of some classical piece in the middle of surgery, and it caused Margaret no small amount of aggravation. Particularly when she attempted to whistle the Queen of the Night's aria from _The Magic Flute_. Charles had to admit, that one grated on his nerves just a tad.

When the redhead returned with Sullivan's tin whistle, Charles was curious despite himself as to what her singing voice sounded like. What he heard made his pulse soar.

The song itself was unremarkable enough; just one of those typical Irish songs, which were invariably about either getting rip-roaring drunk, winding up in jail, or a combination of the two. But when Malone sang it, suddenly it was sublime. In contrast to her normal speaking voice, which was a low contralto, her singing voice was surprisingly high and unusually pure. And accompanied by the clear, piping sound of the tin whistle, it defied description.

When the song was over, little Jun clapped his hands enthusiastically, and Charles very nearly followed suit. "_Jal-han-da!_" he exclaimed happily. "_Nŏ-mu cho-a-yo!_"

"I suppose that must mean he liked it," Sullivan commented.

"_Kam-sa-ham-ni-da_," Malone told the boy with a smile, then leaned toward the soldier and murmured, "Don't expect a crash-course in Korean, because that's the only phrase I know." Sullivan chuckled. "You do know he's never going to go to sleep, right?" she asked in a low voice.

"Not likely, no. Unless, that is, you know any lullabies that might do the trick?"

Malone rolled her eyes. "Do I know any lullabies," she repeated in a flippant tone, as if insulted by the very question. "I used to sing my brother to sleep every night." She cleared her throat with much ceremony and added, "I hope you like Bing Crosby."

Sullivan took up his whistle again, and she began to sing again, a slow, soothing tune that seemed vaguely familiar. Charles found himself holding his breath, as if the sound of his lungs expanding and contracting might somehow interfere with his listening experience. He sat entranced, his heart in his throat, resisting the urge to close his eyes in sheer bliss.

As he watched her, trying to devote every cell in his brain to the task of burning this moment forever into his memory, he became aware of a very strange notion which suddenly formed in his mind, completely irrational but nevertheless impossible to ignore. It was a sort of curiously strong conviction that if he went another second without touching Fenella Malone — without holding her, without _kissing_ her — that something in him might burst, and he would die of internal bleeding.

Ridiculous. Absolutely insane. And yet the feeling persisted.

To his alarm, he realized that his hands had begun to shake, rattling the pages of his journal. His palms were moist, and a cold sweat had broken out on his brow. With a tremendous effort, he forced himself to draw slow, even breaths.

This wasn't happening. It _couldn't_ be happening.

At last the song ended, and both Malone and the whistle fell silent. Cautiously, she and Sullivan looked over at Jun. The boy was asleep in his bed, snoring softly, his string a tangled mess in his small hands.

"Saints be praised," murmured Sullivan. "Well, Nellie me girl, as much as I've enjoyed this little session, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut it short. I'm completely knackered."

Malone chuckled as she gently extricated the string from Jun's grasp and set it aside. "Then I suppose I should let you get some rest," she told him, rising up from her chair with a languid stretch. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will, I will. Good night, Nellie."

As she turned, her gaze fell on Charles, and he realized he was still sitting motionless in his chair, his medical journal lying forgotten in his lap. His pulse increased again as she made her way over to him, a sheepish smile on her lips.

"I'm sorry, Charles," she said in a hushed voice, looking distinctly embarrassed. "That must have been incredibly distracting. I was enjoying myself so much, I didn't even consider the possibility that we might have been bothering you."

For a moment, Charles couldn't think of a response to this. In point of fact, it was all he could do to persuade his mouth to move. "No need to apologize," he managed, a bit hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "I wasn't bothered in the least."

Malone chewed her lower lip, and he found himself beginning to feel acutely envious of her teeth. "Are you sure?"

He forced himself to nod. "Quite sure," he replied. He should have left it at that, but apparently he was too much of an imbecile to do so. "You... You have a lovely voice, Malone," he added softly.

She smiled, and he nearly slid right out of his chair. Good God, she was exquisite. His fingers itched to slip around her little waist, pull her down into his lap, and kiss her on those sweetly curved lips. He no longer cared about what was causing him to feel this way, or why. All he knew was that he never wanted to go a single day without seeing her, or hearing her voice.

There was no use in denying it any longer. He was in love.

It was almost alarming, how easily he could imagine spending the rest of his life with this dear, strange, elfin, oddly old-fashioned, ridiculously endearing woman. And not only that. He could picture himself growing old with her. Having children with her. In his mind's eye, he could almost see her sitting there, next to their own child's bed, singing that same Irish lullaby to a little boy with freckles and curly red hair.

_Red hair._

And it was then that he knew it could never happen. There was no conceivable way that his family would ever approve of her. They would die before they allowed him to marry the daughter of a poor Irish factory worker. They would do everything in their power to destroy her, to crush her spirit, and he couldn't let that happen. There was nothing he could do. He could never tell her, or even hint at how he felt.

There was nothing he could do.

The realization made him sick.

"Charles?" He felt Malone's hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to find her kneeling beside his chair, her eyes filled with surprise and concern. "Charles, are you all right? What's the matter?"

Oh, dear Lord, if she only knew.

"Charles, tell me what's wrong. Please."

All he wanted to do was lean forward and close the short distance between them. But he couldn't.

Willing himself to maintain his composure, he took a deep breath and smiled reassuringly. "Absolutely nothing's the matter, Malone," he said, sounding far calmer than he had expected. "I'm just a little tired, that's all."

Malone's eyebrows drew together as she returned his gaze intently. "Are you sure there's nothing bothering you?" she pressed. "Lately you've seemed a little distracted. Even depressed." Her hand slid down from his shoulder to slip into his. "You don't have to tell me. It's just that... I..." She swallowed. "I care about you, Charles."

Her words caused his heart to give a leap in his chest, while simultaneously twisting a knife in it. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to memorize the sensation of her hand in his.

And then he quickly pulled it out of her grasp.

"I'm perfectly all right, thank you," he said curtly, sitting back in his chair. "Your concern is duly noted, but entirely unwarranted. If in the future I feel compelled to unburden myself, I shall do so. Until then, I would be grateful, Lieutenant, if you would kindly keep your own counsel and leave me to mine."

Charles could have kicked himself. He could scarcely believe that he had just told her, more or less, to mind her own business. From the look on her face, it seemed she couldn't believe it, either. Slowly, she stood up, her fists clenched at her sides.

"Very well, _Major_," she replied icily, with just the slightest hint of a tremor in her voice. "I apologize for my impertinence. Please, don't let me disturb you any longer."

A heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as she turned and stiffly walked away. He wanted to stop her, to tell her that he didn't mean a word he had said. But instead he just sat there. All he could do, as she took up a seat at the opposite end of the Post-Operative Ward, picked up a nearby book, and proceeded to ignore him completely, was _sit there._

Cursing himself in his mind, he opened his medical journal and attempted to focus on the words. He had almost made it through an entire sentence, when he heard a quiet sniff. He looked up just in time to see Malone quickly bring her hand away from her cheek. The backs of her fingers were wet.

As he returned his gaze to the page, his own vision began to blur.

_I'm so sorry, my love._

* * *

A/N: And just like that, I end the chapter. What a jackass I am.

On a side note, I don't actually know if the 28th Medical Dispensary was stationed in Seoul. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure I made it up. But technically, the 4077th wasn't an actual MASH unit, either. So it's all good.

Also, to any of my readers who might be Irish, I hereby apologize both for the bigotry of the Winchester family, and for the stereotypical depiction of Irish folk songs in general. But if it makes you feel better, I'm Irish, too. So when you think about it, I'm basically poking fun at myself. Do leave a review please; if we are still on speaking terms, that is.

-Octopus


	18. You're My Best Friend, You Moron

A/N: Oh, my _goodness._ Here's my New Year's resolution: _finish this story._ I'm so sorry it's taken so long to update. I don't mind telling you that this chapter was an absolute beast to write. I had to scrap it and start over several times; it seemed for a while like I'd gone and written myself into a corner. You'll see why it gave me so much trouble. Let's just say... Charles and Nellie's problems are far from over.

Disclaimer: If I owned _M*A*S*H_, I'd be a bazillionaire. I am not.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Eighteen: You're My Best Friend, You Moron

Miles Sullivan was torn. Although he was anxious to rejoin his regiment, there was still a part of him — a very significant part of him — that was reluctant to leave the 4077th. He had become quite attached to the people who inhabited this odd little shanty town of a hospital, particularly the nurses. _Especially_ the nurses.

And who could fault him for that? After spending months among hordes of unwashed and largely uncouth male soldiers, it was a most welcome change to find himself in the company of so many lovely women... even if it _had_ meant taking a few mortar fragments to the abdomen to get him here. When he had finally come out of his fever-induced delirium and found himself staring up at a bewitching blonde nurse, there had been a brief, but not entirely unpleasant moment when Sullivan suspected he might have gotten himself blown straight up to Heaven. At his polite enquiry, the blonde angel had laughed and replied that 'Heaven didn't have a recovery ward.'

He later learned her name and rank, which seemed to be inextricably linked: Major Margaret Houlihan. She was a right firecracker, that one; as quick with a smile for her patients as with a scolding word to her subordinates, and you could never tell which way it would go. But if she ran a tight ship, it certainly didn't do the 4077th any harm. Her nurses were as efficient and as disciplined as any regiment in the British armed forces. And they were much easier on the eyes.

That little coppertop, Nellie Malone, had briefly caught his fancy, particularly after their impromptu duet. They had gotten on like a house on fire, and he definitely wouldn't have minded getting to know her better. Unfortunately, he was fairly certain that her heart already belonged to someone else — someone entirely undeserving of it. Or so he thought at first.

Sullivan may have been bed-ridden, but he wasn't blind. He had seen the pensive, forlorn, half-wistful glances that Nellie occasionally threw in the direction of that uppity fellow, Major Winchester (or 'Lord Muck', as he liked to call him in his head). Either the git didn't notice, or he deliberately chose not to acknowledge her. In any event, Sullivan wasn't overly impressed. Frankly, he couldn't figure out what Nellie saw in the man.

And then, one night, he found out.

It was just a few days after he and Nellie had amazed little Jun Lee-Cho with their musical prowess. Major Houlihan had very unjustly confiscated his tin whistle, claiming that the physical exertion might cause him to tear his stitches. Thoroughly bored out of his skull, he had sought amusement in an old issue of _LIFE_ Magazine. He was flipping through it listlessly, with Jun stretched out beside him, propped up by several pillows, when his young protégé suddenly pointed to one of the pages with an eager exclamation.

Sullivan frowned exaggeratedly, pretending not to understand. "What's the matter, lad?" he asked, looking down at the magazine in feigned confusion. "You don't like Gregory Peck? Oh, I think he's all right. He's no Laurence Olivier, I grant you, but—"

The boy shook his head impatiently and said something in very frustrated Korean, jabbing his finger at the advertisement on the opposite page. "Ohhh," said Sullivan, his eyes widening as comprehension seemingly dawned on him. "Are you pointing to the Hershey's bar, then? The chocolate?"

Jun crossed his arms over his chest and gave him a sour look. Sullivan didn't need a translator to tell him that the boy thought he was an eejit.

The young sergeant laughed and mussed the kid's hair. "Aww, I'm just putting you on. So you like chocolate, do you? Well, it would seem that childhood addictions to sweets are universal."

With a slight wince, he raised an arm to beckon the nurse on duty, Kealani Kellye. She was a short, rather plump little thing, but she had a gentle way with her, as well as a pair of pretty dark almond eyes and the sunniest smile he had ever seen. "Something I can do for you, Miles?" she asked as she came over.

"I surely hope so," he replied. "You wouldn't happen to have any chocolate, would you? Or know anyone who has? It's for the half-pint here," he elucidated, jerking a thumb in the boy's direction.

Kellye gave an apologetic smile. "Afraid not. It's pretty hard to come by. But if anyone around here knows where to get some, it's Klinger. I'll ask him, the next chance I get."

"Thanks very much, love."

She nodded. "Anything else?" she inquired.

"Just one thing. How did you get to be so sweet?"

Kellye graced him with another smile. "I was born under a date palm."

Sullivan laughed in delight as she moved off to resume her duties. God, he would be sorry to leave this place.

There was nothing else for it but to wait patiently, and so he did precisely that. (Not that he could have done otherwise.) True to her word, Kellye broached the matter to the company clerk, an amiable Arab named Maxwell Klinger. When the man himself came into Post-Op later that afternoon, Sullivan knew by the look on his face that it wasn't good news. It seemed the Hawaiian nurse hadn't been exaggerating; there was no chocolate to be had for love or money anywhere in the camp.

Sullivan thanked him for his efforts, and tried his best not to be disappointed. After all, it wasn't the end of the world. Still, it would have been a nice surprise for Jun. He couldn't imagine the poor lad had experienced many simple pleasures in his short life.

That night, the Irish soldier found himself shifting restlessly in his lumpy hospital bed, unable to sleep due to the constant drumming of the rain on the tin roof of the recovery ward. Captain Pierce, the surgeon on night duty, was in the adjoining room with the attending nurse, and it didn't take bloody Sherlock Holmes to deduce what they were up to. He was briefly toying with the idea of tearing off his gauze bandages and cramming them into his ears when he heard the door to the compound give a creak. He cracked an eye open and turned slowly toward the sound just in time to see none other than Lord Muck himself slip furtively inside.

Curious, Sullivan lay perfectly still as Major Winchester moved stealthily through the ward, his tall form casting a long shadow across the plywood walls. He couldn't even begin to guess why the man would be here at this hour. Perhaps he'd come to reprimand Pierce for his scurrilous behavior.

It was all he could do to feign sleep as the major's footfalls came closer and closer. But instead of passing him by, they came to a halt at Jun's bedside, where the boy was fast asleep, snoring softly. Risking another surreptitious peek, Sullivan opened one eye a fraction.

As he watched, Winchester reached a long hand into his coat pocket and placed an object on the pillow beside Jun's head. After pausing briefly to smooth down the boy's dark hair, he turned and silently left the recovery ward.

For a long moment, Sullivan lay motionless, hardly daring to move. Then, very quietly, he extended an arm across the small space between Jun's bed and his own and plucked up the mysterious object with his fingers. As he brought it close to his face, he smiled in amazement. It was a bar of expensive Swiss chocolate.

Carefully, he returned the bar to Jun's pillow. For a long time, he lay staring up at the ceiling in contemplation.

Perhaps he had misjudged Lord Muck, after all.

* * *

It was a glorious spring day. The sky was a light shade of pearl gray, and the rain had lessened to a fine mist, like sea spray from the ocean. The weather was not cold, but not warm enough to be uncomfortably humid. But although it was the very definition of a perfect day in Nellie Malone's book, she was not in the proper mood to enjoy it. Or anything else, for that matter.

She was wondering if she would ever be happy again.

It was ridiculous, letting her emotions get the better of her like this. But she couldn't help it. She simply hadn't expected to feel this devastated. And all because of one man. One lousy, lofty, stuck-up, supercilious, insufferably arrogant, maddeningly egotistical snob of a man.

The whole thing was incomprehensible. Just when she and Winchester were starting to become truly close, he had suddenly thrown up his defenses and shut her out. He had become cold and distant. He had stopped taking his meals with her, had ceased to borrow her books, and he barely even spoke more than a handful of words to her at a time. It was as if their past several months of friendship had never occurred. They might as well have been strangers.

The worst part of it was that there was no _reason_ for this abrupt change in demeanor. Or if there was, Nellie was at a loss to see it. As far as she could remember, she had done nothing to invite Winchester's ostracism. Try as she might, she just could not figure out why he couldn't seem to stand her anymore.

To say that Nellie was taking it hard would have been an understatement. She had completely lost her appetite; as if the camp food wasn't hard enough to choke down already. She took no interest in her duties, or even in conversation with others. She lay awake most nights, agonizing over what she might or might not have done to deserve this. In a way, it was like she was in mourning; not over the loss of a friend, but of a friendship. The last time she had felt this utterly crushed had been when her father had passed away.

Her bereavement had not gone unnoticed by her friends at the 4077th. Kellye and the other nurses had rallied around her, while simultaneously shunning Winchester to the best of their abilities. Hawkeye and B.J. had taken her out to Rosie's on a few occasions in the hopes of bringing her out of her funk and getting her to have a little fun, without success. Klinger had brought her back a bouquet of irises on his most recent drive down to Seoul, which she had found quite touching. Even Colonel Potter had tried to cheer her up in his own way by "requesting" that she brush Sophie's coat, knowing how much she had previously enjoyed the task. Nothing succeeded in lifting her spirits.

The final straw was when Nellie learned that Sergeant Sullivan would finally be rejoining his regiment. She had grown rather fond of the kind-hearted young Irishman, and knowing that he would soon be going back into battle, risking further injury or even death, made her want to kick things over or scream at the heavens. It was unfair. It was all so damnably unfair.

"You'll see to it that Jun goes to a good orphanage, I trust?" asked Sullivan as he sat on the edge of his hospital bed, lacing up his combat boots. The little boy in question, as well as the rest of the camp, was waiting in the mess tent to give the soldier a proper farewell send-off.

"Of course," Nellie assured him. "I have it on the authority of none other than Father Mulcahy himself that Sister Theresa's is the best around."

"Glad to hear it." He straightened with a regretful sigh. "I don't mind telling you, Nellie me girl, I'm going to miss that little face, gazing up at me with frank adoration. And Jun's, as well."

She swatted him lightly on the arm. "Bloody cheek," she scolded half-heartedly.

Sullivan laughed. "I'm only fooling. I know perfectly well you're already besotted with another bloke. A certain blustery bloke from Boston, if I'm not mistaken," he added with a sly smile.

Nellie felt her cheeks begin to burn. "That's not funny," she said in a low voice.

The sergeant noticed the immediate change in her, and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, love," he said gently. "Honest, I didn't mean any harm. For what it's worth, I think Winchester must be off his nut, to turn down a sweet girl like you."

She shook her head quickly, trying her best not to cry. "It's not that I'm 'besotted', as you say," she replied, with only the faintest tremor in her voice. "I'm just... hurt, that's all. We were such good friends, and now... all that's gone. Without even a word of explanation." She found herself blinking back tears. "I miss him like crazy," she admitted with a stifled sob.

"Now, now," murmured Sullivan, as she struggled to regain her composure. "Don't go shedding any tears over the likes of him. He's not worth it."

Nellie tried not to listen. She tried to tell herself that he was wrong; that he didn't know Charles Winchester like she did. But even as the notion came into her head, it was followed by another, more persistent one: She had thought _she_ had known him. Obviously, she'd been wrong.

She took a deep, steadying breath. "You're right," she said flatly after a moment. "The hell with him."

Sullivan grinned. "There's a good lass," he said approvingly. "Now," he prompted as he rose to his feet, "would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to the festivities?"

The redhead took the arm he had ceremoniously offered to her. "Gladly."

It was a farewell party to remember. There was music and dancing and surprisingly edible hors d'oeuvres, presumably from the personal stashes of the camp's residents and not the kitchen. Everyone at the 4077th had become extremely attached to young Sullivan, and they each insisted on saying goodbye in turn. Nellie couldn't help noticing that he took his sweet time bidding adieu to Lieutenant Kellye. There was one individual, however, who was having a difficult time accepting the idea of his departure.

Jun was inconsolable. He knew the reason for the party in the mess tent, and nothing anyone could say or do would lift the gloomy expression from his face. If he hadn't needed his crutches to hold him up, his arms would have been firmly latched around the Irish soldier's legs.

By the time the jeep arrived to take Sullivan back to his regiment, most of the camp had said their goodbyes. As he threw his tattered rucksack into the back seat, Nellie stepped forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Take care of yourself, Miles," she said. "And whatever you do, try to stay out of hospitals."

"I will, Nellie, I will." He took a long, hard look at Jun, who was scowling up at him. With a sigh, he turned and reached into his rucksack. He pulled out his tin whistle and held it out to the boy. "Will you keep this safe for me, lad?"

Jun's dark eyes widened as he took it from him. At last, Sullivan succeeded in coaxing a smile from the child. "_Kam-sa-ham-ni-da_," he said.

"You're welcome," Sullivan answered softly, ruffling the boy's hair.

He climbed into the jeep and signaled to the driver that he was ready. As the vehicle drove off, the camp waved, and all the nurses blew kisses until he was completely out of sight. Jun wiped at his eyes with the back of his small hand, and Nellie patted his back as comfortingly as she could.

_I know how you feel,_ she thought bleakly. _It's not easy to lose a friend._

* * *

Colonel Sherman Potter slammed the telephone receiver down into its cradle, swearing angrily under his breath. "Damn, I hate it when that call comes in," he muttered.

Klinger looked up from alphabetizing the medical records in the commanding officer's file cabinet. "What call would that be, O esteemed leader?"

"That was the Battalion Aid station up near the front," Potter said grimly. "They're getting hammered, and they need some assistance, _pronto_."

"And we're the only MASH unit close enough to the front lines to send it, right?" Klinger leaned against the file cabinet with a sigh. "So whose turn is it to risk his neck this time? I think Captain Hunnicutt was the last to go."

"And before that, it was Pierce." Potter rubbed wearily at his eyes with the heels of his palms before returning his glasses to his face. "That means it's down to either me or Winchester."

"Right, sir. Winchester it is. Shall I give him the good news over the P.A., or in person?"

Potter glared at his clerk over his spectacles. "Neither. You're going to tell him to report to my office, and we'll make the decision together. By rock-paper-scissors, if we have to."

"But sir, why don't you just order him to—"

"No 'but's, Klinger," he said firmly. "My number one rule is, I never order my people to do anything I wouldn't be willing to do myself. Now get moving."

Klinger was obviously not pacified, but he raised no further protests. "Yes, sir."

As he waited for Winchester, the colonel busied himself with his paperwork and tried not to look at the photograph of his wife on his desk. If Mildred ever got wind of all the damned fool risks he took at his age and position, he'd never hear the end of it. But the simple fact was that he loathed the idea of sending any of the people under his command into certain danger. Even if it _was_ Winchester.

And then, of course, there was the matter of choosing a nurse to go along to provide assistance. Margaret had volunteered herself for the last three times, on the grounds that she was the most qualified candidate. But Potter knew the real reason: she was too fiercely protective of her staff to let any of them go in her stead. He understood her feelings all too well. At the same time, he knew it was irresponsible to send his head nurse to the front every time they got the call.

The door to his office swung open, and he looked up to see Winchester step inside, dripping with rain and looking like a mere husk of his former self. "I understand you wished to see me, Colonel?" he inquired politely, but without his usual lofty air.

"That's right, Major. Have a seat." The man sank into the chair in front of Potter's desk. "I can't make this sweet, but I'll make it short," he told him. "I just got a call from Battalion Aid. They're up to their eyebrows in casualties, and they've asked us to lend a hand."

Winchester nodded soberly. "And I've drawn the short straw, as it were?" he asked in a low voice.

"Not exactly," Potter replied. "Hunnicutt and Pierce were the last two to go, so they're off the hook. And seeing as how I was away at a conference in Tokyo the time before that, I suppose it should technically be my turn. However..."

"However, it would seem ill-advised to endanger the 4077th's commanding officer unnecessarily," the major completed his thought for him. "I quite understand, Colonel." There was a brief pause while he absorbed this information. "Am I to assume that Major Houlihan will be accompanying me?"

_If she had her way,_ Potter thought, but shook his head. "Not this time. She risks her hide often enough already. The truth is, the other nurses are just as qualified as she is. Why don't I leave this one up to you, Major? Any personal preference?"

The man shook his head slowly, his eyes on the desk in front of him. "I hesitate to recommend _any_ of the nurses for such an inherently dangerous excursion, sir," he confessed, unknowingly raising Potter's opinion of him by several notches. "I'm afraid I must defer to your judgment."

"If you insist. I'll let you know when I've made my decision." As Winchester rose to leave, a sudden thought occurred to the colonel. "Hang on a minute," he said, halting the younger man in mid-stride. "What about Malone?"

Winchester nearly tripped over his feet. "_Malone?_" he choked out.

"It makes perfect sense." Potter ticked the points off on his fingers. "You two are already amigos. You work well with her in surgery. And I've noticed you two seem to have been drifting apart lately. This'll give you a chance to patch things up with her."

The major took a deep, unsteady breath. "While I appreciate the sentiment behind the gesture, Colonel, I really must protest. Lieutenant Malone is... inexperienced. She's not prepared to administer aid in the field. She would be a liability."

"Horse apples," Potter said bluntly, losing his patience. "She's just as good as any of the other nurses. The only reason you don't want her along is because you've been acting like a jackass to her, and you're feeling guilty about it. Well, tough tulips. Malone is going with you, and you're going to make up and play nice. Got it?"

Winchester was silent for some time, and Potter thought he might just have a mutineer on his hands. But at last he nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

"Good," Potter replied, returning his nod. "Klinger!"

The door to the adjoining clerk's office opened, and the clerk in question stuck his head inside. "You bellowed, sir?"

"Major Winchester will be heading up to Battalion Aid. Tell Rizzo to get a jeep ready. And have Lieutenant Malone report to my office."

"Malone?" Klinger blanched. "Oh, God. Oh, no, please, Colonel, not Nellie, I'm begging you—"

"Rizzo. Jeep. Malone. Office. _Scoot._"

"All right, all right, I'm scooting." The clerk fixed a glare on Winchester, who was still looking like a man in a daze. "But a thousand curses be on your head if anything happens to her, Major."

"_Scoot!_"

As Klinger hurried off on his errand, Potter watched as Winchester dragged a hand through what remained of his hair. Taking pity on the man, he stood up and circled his desk, stopping next to him and giving his shoulder a commiserating squeeze.

"Don't worry, son," he told him. "It'll all turn out okay. I know you'll take good care of her."

As Winchester returned his gaze, he was alarmed to see a haunted look in his pale blue eyes. "I hope to God you're right," he replied.

* * *

"You can't do that."

Hawkeye looked up from the checkerboard. "Come again?"

"You can't do that. You just made an illegal move."

"I did? Where?"

"There." B.J. pointed to one of the red pieces. "You moved your guy backwards, and he hasn't been kinged yet. He's a snot-nosed little prince, at best."

"Oh, you're right. Sorry about that. He was spoiled as a child." Hawkeye moved his piece back to its former position. "Can I go again?"

B.J. shrugged. "Sure, knock yourself out. I'm still winning."

Hawkeye grumbled to himself under his breath as he contemplated his next move. At this early time of the day, the Swamp was their only refuge. The mess tent was packed with people seeking shelter from the unrelenting rain. The Officers' Club wasn't open yet, and Rosie was still cleaning up from the wild revelries of the previous night. For the time being, there was nowhere else to go.

Not that Hawkeye particularly minded. At the 4077th, boredom was infinitely preferable to the alternative, which almost always consisted of bobbing for shrapnel inside some poor kid's belly. All the same, he'd just as soon be bored someplace else. Like the States, for example.

"You going to the movie tonight?" B.J. asked, to make conversation.

"_The Mystery of the Wax Museum_? Pass. If I wanted to see pale, lifeless figures with hollow, dead eyes, I'd go to one of Frank's family reunions." At last, Hawkeye's insubordinate piece successfully reached the opposite end of the checkerboard. "There. Crown the whelp."

As his friend placed one of his captured pieces on Hawkeye's own, there was a knock at the door. "Advance and be recognized!" B.J. commanded in a booming voice.

The door swung open on its rusted hinges, and a curly red head in an oversized combat helmet peeked inside. "Oh, I'm sorry," Malone said hastily. "I thought... I was looking for... I'll come back later."

"No, no, hey, wait a minute!" Hawkeye called after her. "What's the rush? Come on in. Sit a spell. Have a drink. Shoot the breeze."

She hesitated for a moment in the open doorway, before stepping inside and removing her helmet. "'Have a drink'?" she repeated with a dubious frown. "It's a little early in the day for masochism, don't you think?"

"True, but in Crabapple Cove, we're just in time for cocktails." He stood and poured the nurse a drink from the still. "I like to synchronize my drinking to Eastern Standard Time. It makes me feel closer to home."

Malone smirked as she took the glass from his fingers. "You're a real sentimentalist, Hawk." She took a sip and pulled a face. "It's absolutely terrible, thank you. Are you ever going to stop plying me with this poisonous stuff?"

"Yeah," said B.J., pondering his next move over the checkerboard. "When you actually ask for it. Then we'll know it's time to cut you off."

She raised her glass in an irreverent toast as she sat down on the edge of Hawkeye's cot. He couldn't help noticing that she was looking thinner than he could ever remember seeing her, and she'd always been a petite little scrap. There were dark smudges under her eyes, too, like she hadn't been getting sufficient rest. These weren't exactly new developments, but they worried him nevertheless.

"So what's with the crockpot?" he asked, gesturing to the helmet resting in her lap.

Malone stared down at it with obvious distaste, as if it had personally insulted her parentage or bitten her on the leg. "It seems I've won a free trip to the front lines," she replied in a deceptively light tone. "Battalion Aid needs help, and the 4077th was either too gallant or too insane to ignore the call."

"And you're the assisting nurse?" B.J. looked slightly taken aback. "I'm surprised Margaret's letting you go."

"She didn't really have a say in the matter. It was Colonel Potter's idea. He made it very clear to me that it was my decision, and that I could decline if I had even the slightest reservation about it." She sighed into her drink. "There's no way I could ever say no to that man."

"It gets surprisingly easy after the first hundred times," Hawkeye told her.

Her lips twitched in a brief, half-hearted smile. "Anyway," she resumed, "that's why I came in here. I was looking for Major Winchester. He's going, too, and I was hoping — in vain, no doubt — that he could tell me what to expect when we get there. Wishful thinking, I suppose, but... I'd rather not appear _completely_ inept at the aid station."

"Well, you just missed him," said B.J. "When last we saw him, he was heading for the showers, after muttering some cryptic remark about this being the last chance he'd get to be clean in a while. I guess now we know why."

Malone nodded pensively, staring at a fixed spot on the floor of the tent. Hawkeye regarded her with close scrutiny for a moment. "Mind if I ask you something, Red?" he asked at last.

At this her expression became guarded. "Go ahead," she answered evenly.

"What is going on with you and Charles? You two used to be thick as thieves, and now you hardly even talk to each other. We've already asked him about it, but can't get a single word out of him."

"Big surprise there," put in B.J.

The girl shook her head, ginger curls flying about her face. "I don't know," she said in a low, tired voice. "And I've decided that I don't care, either. I'm not going to spend any more time agonizing over it. If he wants to treat me like I have leprosy, that's his prerogative. I just want to get this over with, and hopefully not get blown to bits in the process."

Hawkeye watched with a twinge of pity as Malone set her glass carefully aside and stood up, replacing her helmet on her head. "Thank you for the drink," she said with strangely affected politeness, as if out of habit. "I think I'll go back to my tent and write a quick letter to Danny. Just in case anything... should happen."

"Hey." He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, kid. You'll be fine. Just keep that calm head of yours, and do everything Charles tells you. Even if you secretly want to sock him in the eye."

She nodded minutely. "I will." She hesitated for a second, then stepped forward and impulsively hugged him. Slightly startled, Hawkeye wrapped his arms around her slim form and gave her a reassuring squeeze. After a moment, she pulled away and smiled. "I'll be back before you know it."

"We'll be counting the minutes," B.J. told her.

With another smile, she waved and left the Swamp. Hawkeye found himself staring at the door for some time after she had departed, until B.J.'s voice broke into his reverie:

"She's scared," he observed in a low voice.

"She's terrified." Hawkeye shook his head as he began pacing the Swamp, his hands in his trouser pockets. "She acts so cool and collected all the time, it's easy to forget that she's a kid compared to all of us. But the truth is, she's young. Young, and scared, and far from home. If there was ever a time for Charles to step up and be a real friend to her, this is it."

"I wonder what the hell he could be thinking," B.J. muttered indignantly, almost to himself.

Hawkeye said he didn't know. But he could take a wild guess.

* * *

Charles would never get used to this. It was like being in Dante's description of the seventh circle of Hell: the continuous rain of fire from above, the tortured cries for help filling his ears, the bodies of men lying about him, charred and disfigured beyond recognition. It was a waking nightmare.

He wished to God that Malone could have been spared this.

She stood silently beside him in the bombed-out aid station, flinching slightly as the sound of shelling seemed to grow closer and closer. As Charles worked as quickly as he could to remove the shrapnel from the unconscious soldier on the table in front of him, Malone held her arms protectively over the patient, trying her best to shield the open wound from the falling dust and debris. His forehead had broken out in a fine sheen of perspiration, but he dared not ask to have it wiped away. Malone was harried enough as it was, and the other medics were literally up to their elbows in other matters. For the time being, he would simply have to deal with it.

The jeep ride to the aid station had been uneventful and, for the most part, quiet. Malone had tried initially to make half-hearted conversation, but he had discouraged her desultory attempts. She had clearly been frustrated, but nevertheless had held her tongue, and the rest of the trip had been made in silence.

Now, at his side, he risked a brief glance down at the young woman. Below her combat helmet and above her mask, her brow was deeply furrowed, either in concentration, fear, or anger. Charles was unable to tell which, but somehow he suspected the latter.

He hated himself for putting her through all this. And not merely for exposing her to the horrors of the front, though that alone was unforgivable. He knew his recent treatment of her was abominable. He knew he had hurt her deeply by his sudden and, to her point of view, inexplicable estrangement. But he had no choice. He didn't trust himself. He knew himself well enough to realize that he could never be content with simply being Malone's friend, when in his heart he yearned for so much more.

He almost wished he had never met her. It was a dreadful thing to wish for. But if he had never met her, he would never have fallen in love with her. And they would both be spared this agony now.

To his annoyance, his vision had begun to blur. He blinked rapidly, mentally rebuking himself for allowing his mind to wander when he should be focusing on the task before him.

He held out a gloved hand. "Forceps," he requested.

Silently, Malone retrieved the instrument and placed it in his hand. She hadn't spoken a word to him in over an hour.

They continued to work, as quickly but efficiently as possible. He had just sent his final patient away on a stretcher when a sudden explosion shook the flimsy walls of the aid station. Instinctively, Charles flung himself on top of Malone, pinning her against the operating table and shielding her body with his own. Her bloodied, gloved hand frantically sought his, and he gripped it tightly. As debris and particulate rained down around them, he pressed his face into her neck, feeling the race of her pulse, holding onto it like a lifeline.

At last, when the world seemed to cease exploding around them and the dust began to settle, Charles cautiously relinquished his hold on Malone. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice strained in his exhaustion and anxiety.

She nodded, appearing dazed and shaken, but otherwise unhurt. "I, I think so," she stammered. "You?"

"Fine." He turned to the other medics, who had taken cover under various objects. "Is everyone all right here?"

There were general responses in the affirmative as everyone staggered to their feet. As Charles peeled off his gloves and wiped at his damp forehead with the sleeve of his gown, the battalion surgeon came forward and grasped his hand, followed by Malone's. "We can't thank you both enough for coming, Major, Lieutenant," the man said. "I don't mind admitting that we couldn't have managed without you. You're more than welcome to stay the night and drive back to the 4077th in the morning."

Charles exchanged a brief glance with Malone. The desperate look in her wide green eyes told him everything he needed to know. "Thank you, no," he demurred, as politely as he could. "I think we are both rather anxious to return to our unit."

"Very well. I'll have the corpsmen ready your jeep."

As he drove south along the muddy, uneven road, Charles found himself breathing shallowly, like a massive weight was sitting on his chest. He tried to take deep, even breaths, but the stifling, oppressive, claustrophobic sensation persisted. In vexation, he undid the top buttons of his shirt under his Army-issue raincoat.

There, that felt a little better. For good measure, he took off his combat helmet and tossed it in the back seat of the jeep. The cloth top of the vehicle provided some cover from the inclement weather, but the occasional raindrops that found their way in through the open doors felt cool and refreshing on his face. After some minutes, he finally began to relax.

"You really should leave your helmet on," Malone admonished quietly. "We're still pretty close to the front lines."

Charles stiffened. "Don't worry about me," he said shortly.

Malone shifted in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. "Suit yourself," she murmured.

He suppressed a sigh. He had hoped that they could make it back to the 4077th in silence, but it seemed his traveling companion had other plans. But she would give up, eventually. After a while, she would realize that there would be no going back to the way things were. And she would accept it.

For the thousandth time, Charles tried to convince himself that this was for the best. For the thousandth time, he failed.

His grip tightened involuntarily on the steering wheel when Malone spoke again: "Are you reading anything interesting at the moment?"

Good heavens, couldn't the girl take a hint? "No," he replied.

"Mmm." She stared out the rain-splashed windshield for a few moments. "Would you like to borrow one of my books? I think I recall your saying that you'd never read _The Moonstone_."

Charles' jaw clenched. "No, thank you."

There was a tense silence. Then: "Are my books suddenly not good enough for you?"

"Malone, _please_," he snapped, much more sharply than he'd intended. "I am attempting to focus on the road."

Above the noise of the engine and the lashing of the rain, he heard her exhale in frustration. "Look," she blurted. "_Major._ I don't know what I've done to offend you. But the very least you could do is tell me, so I can try to make amends."

Charles took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "I assure you," he answered as evenly as he could, "you've done nothing to offend me. I simply wish for some silence."

"Oh, give me a break," she said bitterly. He could feel her glare without even looking at her. "I'm not obtuse. Clearly, you're angry with me. I think I have a right to know why."

"I am _not_ angry with you. Now shut _up._"

Malone suddenly erupted. "No!" she shouted, causing Charles to flinch. "Don't you tell me to shut up! How _dare_ you?"

He made the mistake of glancing over at her, and immediately regretted it. In her righteous anger, she was positively frightening. "_Damn_ you, Charles," she seethed in a low, furious voice, which was almost more unsettling than her previous outburst. "How can your conscience allow you to treat me this way? I thought we were _friends._ Kindred spirits, remember? _Your_ words, Charles. Not mine."

His chest was beginning to feel uncomfortably tight again. "You know I've never had a friend like you," she continued unsteadily. "Not in my entire life. No one has ever understood me the way you do. No one else has ever _wanted_ to_._" He heard her give a soft, sad laugh. "'I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.'"

_Twelfth Night,_ thought Charles, recognizing the quote instantly. The circumstances only served to make it even more poignant.

"I came to this place utterly alone, and you took me in, and gave me stability. Sometimes, when it seemed like there'd be no end to the casualties, the thought that you'd be there when I walked into the O.R. is what kept me going. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me."

He wanted to tell her that he felt the same way. But he couldn't get the words out. His vocal chords were paralyzed.

"And now..." Malone's breath hitched in her throat. "Now you won't even speak to me. You treat me like I don't exist. Like I mean _nothing_ to you." She sniffed. "Do you have any idea how that feels? Do you?"

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. What else can I do? How can I _ever_ make you understand?_

A sudden sob escaped her. "For God's sake, Charles! What have I done to deserve this? _Tell_ me!"

He turned toward her, to see her eyes brimming with tears. The sight caused his heart to twist painfully. Slowly, he started to reach for her hand.

Suddenly, her gaze flicked toward the road, and her eyes widened. "Charles, look out!" she exclaimed.

Charles looked back out the windshield to see a massive crater in the middle of the road, caused by the most recent shellings. He turned the steering wheel sharply, just managing to avoid it, but he overcompensated, causing the jeep to fishtail crazily toward the edge of the road. A steep ravine yawned below them, its bottom densely lined with trees. Charles slammed on the brakes, but the jeep's tires continued to spin uselessly, unable to gain purchase in the soupy mud. The ravine grew inexorably closer.

The jeep now teetered over the precipice. For a harrowing split-second, the vehicle was balanced precariously on its rear wheels. Charles looked over at Malone, her face white with terror, and he made an almost instantaneous decision.

He shoved her out of the jeep.

As the car toppled over into the ravine, he could just barely hear Malone shouting his name, and then the trees were rushing swiftly up to meet him, and a sudden blow rendered everything black.

* * *

A/N: *dodges flying vegetables*

Okay, I know what you must be thinking. But trust me, this chapter was planned from the very beginning. And the chapters following this one, for that matter. In fact, the basic plot of this story has existed, in outline form, since long before I even posted the first chapter. So don't worry. I know what I'm doing.

And don't fret over Charles. I like him too much to inflict any serious damage on him. You know that.

If you can be persuaded to forgive me, please leave a review before you go. And Happy New Year!

-Octopus


	19. The Spam Hits the Fan

A/N: Dear me, so many irate reviews! I can hardly blame you. The way I ended the last chapter was inexcusable. Well, I won't hold you in suspense any longer. Without further delay, here is the latest chapter! I sincerely hope you enjoy it. I suspect you will. :)

Disclaimer: _M*A*S*H_ is not mine. I promise to give it back when I'm done.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Nineteen: The Spam Hits the Fan

Nellie crawled about frantically on all fours in the driving rain, combing the muddy ground with her fingers. Upon finding herself being pushed unceremoniously out of the jeep, her glasses had gone flying off her face and landing God only knew where. Her wrist, which was still a bit tender from her recent sprain, had broken her fall, and it throbbed painfully as she felt around for her missing spectacles. After a few more seconds of fruitless searching, she gave up and scrambled to her feet. There were more pressing issues at hand.

Somewhere below her, she had heard a crash.

"Charles!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "Are you all right? If you are, answer me! I can't see you! _Charles!_"

She bit back a sob, knowing if she gave into it, the dam would burst, and she wouldn't be able to stop. This was no time to surrender to hysterics. She had to find Charles. Nothing else mattered.

She squinted hard as she scanned her surroundings, all the while continuing to shout his name. But it was difficult to make sense of the indistinct shapes around her. Her eyesight was bad enough to begin with, but the weak afternoon light was beginning to fade, turning the blurry landscape into one big Impressionist painting. If she tried to look for the crashed jeep, she would almost certainly end up lost herself. Despite her best efforts, she began to panic.

This was all her fault. If she hadn't distracted Charles, he would have seen the hole in the road and had time to maneuver around it. Now he was at the bottom of a ravine, without his helmet. He could be unconscious, or worse. And she couldn't see a damned thing.

If she lost him... she would never forgive herself.

She had no idea how long she had been shouting, and her voice was growing hoarse. But for what seemed an eternity, the only sound was the drumming of the rain on her helmet. Then, at last, she thought she heard a groan.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she nearly choked. "Charles! Charles, can you hear me?"

Another groan drifted toward her ears over the sound of the rain. "Of course I can hear you," came the familiar sardonic drawl. "Your bellowing could rival that of a dying water buffalo."

At the sound of Charles's voice, Nellie found herself blinking back tears of overwhelming relief. "Oh, thank God," she exclaimed, her hand over her rapidly pounding heart. "Where are you? Are you all right? Are you injured at all?"

"One question at a time, Malone. Goodness."

"Sorry. I lost my glasses. I can't see very well without them. Can you move? No, wait, maybe you shouldn't." She knew she was babbling, but she couldn't help herself. She hadn't realized how stressed she had been just a few moments ago. "Just stay where you are. Keep talking, and I'll come to you."

"If you insist," was Charles's strangely detached reply. "Although I must say, you're doing a splendid job of talking for the both of us."

As Nellie stumbled and skidded down the muddy slope of the ravine in the direction of the major's voice, she tried to move as quickly as possible, without sacrificing caution for the sake of speed. Given that he was possibly injured, and she was half-blind, the last thing either of them needed was for her to fall and break a leg while coming to his aid.

By the time she found her way to the bottom of the ravine, she was freezing and filthy, and her wrist was throbbing terribly. But her discomfort abruptly fell away as she made out the indistinct outline of the jeep. She moved toward it quickly, her boots splashing and squelching in the thick, sucking mud. As she approached, she could see that some sort of large maple tree had stopped the vehicle's descent; the front end had wrapped itself around its trunk, and the hood had crumpled like an accordion. Her pulse quickened as she spied a blurry form sitting on the ground next to it.

"Charles." She knelt down beside him, her hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Charles, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?" He blinked up at her in confusion. "Whatever are you talking about, Malone?"

She frowned. "I... I took your attention away from the road," she explained slowly. "If I hadn't distracted you, we wouldn't be in this mess." She squinted as she leaned closer to him, trying to assess his condition as best as she could in the fading light. "You haven't told me if you're all right. Can you move? Is anything broken?"

Charles shook his head, and then winced at the movement. "No. I mean, yes. I mean..." He seemed disoriented, unable to give a clear answer. "I don't believe I've broken any bones. Except perhaps my skull."

At this, Nellie's concern increased considerably. "You hit your head?"

"Mmm." His hand went up to gingerly cradle his right temple, and he groaned again. "Hurts. Intensely."

"Let me have a look." Gently, she pulled his hand away from his head, and her eyes widened in alarm as she saw blood on his fingers. "Oh, God," she croaked. "Oh, no. Charles, let me see your eyes."

"What?" he asked irritably. "Why do you want to see my eyes? I thought you were blind."

"I can see well enough up close. Now look at me."

With a sigh, he obediently raised his gaze to meet hers. His eyes were unfocused, glazed over, lacking their usual keenness. They seemed to look _through_ her, rather than at her. But both of his pupils were the same size.

Next, she inspected the gash on his temple. It had bled rather a lot, but head wounds tended to do that. Very carefully, she felt all the bones in his skull. Thankfully, despite his suspicions to the contrary, he hadn't sustained any cranial fractures. All in all, it didn't seem too severe.

She sat back on her haunches. "Well, the good news is, you didn't break your head," she told him. "But the bad news is, you almost certainly have a concussion."

"Ah," he replied dully. "That would undoubtedly explain why there are two of you."

For the life of her, Nellie could not think of an appropriate response to this statement. Instead, she found herself wondering how they would ever make it back to camp. With Charles's head injury and her visual impairment, it would be quite literally like the blind leading the befuddled. And then there was the fact that it would be dark soon.

They didn't have a chance in Hell.

She shook her head. _First things first,_ she thought. The aid station had run out of gauze bandages while they were there, and they had been forced to use some of the rolls in the Army field medic kit they had brought along with them. But Nellie was fairly certain there were one or two left. At least, she was hoping there were. She scrambled quickly to her feet.

"Where are you going?" Charles blurted, suddenly alarmed.

"To get the medic bag from the jeep. Hopefully it didn't get thrown out along with yours truly." She made her way around to the other side of the vehicle, trying not to slip in the mud. There seemed to be a lot more damage on the passenger side, she noticed; the frame looked less like a car and more like the twisted bits of metal that the 4077th specialized in removing from soldiers on a regular basis. As she walked, shards of glass crunched under her boots.

And then, as she peered in through the open door of the jeep, her heart froze in her chest.

Now, at last, she could see the reason for all the broken glass: when the vehicle had collided with the tree, a particularly low-hanging branch had been driven through the windshield and embedded itself in the passenger seat.

A black wave of nausea swept over Nellie. If she had been in the jeep when it crashed — if Charles hadn't pushed her out — she would have been impaled. No one could have survived an injury like that.

Her throat closed, and her eyes began to well up with tears. _No,_ she told herself harshly. _Not now._ She would deal with the shock of this revelation later. Right now, her skills as a nurse were needed.

Blinking to clear her vision — such as it was — she leaned inside the jeep and retrieved the canvas medic bag that had been stowed under the ruined passenger seat, along with a canteen and a pack of C-rations . A thought occurred to her, and she reached into the back and grabbed Charles's discarded helmet. He wouldn't be forgetting it again, if she had anything to say about it.

When she returned to the surgeon's side, she found him leaning back against the side of the jeep, his eyes closed. "Hey!" she shouted, causing him to jolt to attention. "None of that now. You can't fall asleep, Charles. I need you with me."

She felt his bleary-eyed glare on her as she dug around in the bag, looking for bandages. "Don't be absurd, Malone," he said, his speech slightly slurred. "It's perfectly safe to fall asleep after sustaining a concussion."

"That's not the point." There seemed to be only one roll of sterilized gauze bandages left. She tore open the package and removed it. "I need you to be my eyes, if we ever want to make it back to camp."

"Why on earth do you need my eyes?"

Nellie exhaled slowly, forcing down her impatience. "I told you, I lost my glasses. Remember?"

"Malone," he sighed, "how could you be so careless?"

She knelt down next to him again. "I had more important matters on my mind. Namely you. Hold still, please."

With infinite care, she unrolled the bandage and began to wrap his injured head. Her wrist ached from the task, but she ignored it. As she worked, Charles watched her contemplatively, as if evaluating her performance.

"You're rather good at this," he remarked after a moment.

She hid a smile, feeling a rush of fierce affection for him. "It's not my first time," she replied fondly.

At length she finished, and sat back with a sigh. "I'm afraid you won't be able to wear your helmet for a while," she told him. "Not until the swelling has gone down, anyway. But at least the shelling has stopped. For the time being."

"Ever the raging optimist, Malone," said Charles dryly.

"Just call me Pollyanna," she answered, getting back to her feet. "Can you stand up?"

He blinked slowly up at her. "Why would I want to do that?"

"We need to get out of here," she explained patiently. "When the 4077th notices that we haven't come back yet, they'll call the aid station, and they'll tell _them_ we've already left. They'll realize something must have happened, and they'll send out someone to look for us." She hefted the medic bag onto her shoulder. "That's why we need to get back on the road. They'll never find us down here."

Charles was shaking his head, despite the obvious fact that it was causing him pain. "Potter's no fool," he said. "He won't send a search party now. It's nearly dark already. By the time they arrived, they wouldn't be able to see a thing." He leaned back against the jeep again with an air of finality. "We should remain here until morning. Start out for camp at first light."

Nellie did not care for that idea at all. "I don't want to stay here," she said bluntly.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because..." How could she explain to him that she didn't want to be anywhere near the place where they could very well have both been killed? "Because it's not safe," she said at last. "We're too isolated out here. _Someone_, at least, should know where we are. We passed a small village on the way here. I think we should go back there for help."

Her reasoning was flimsy at best, and she was well aware of it. Fortunately, in Charles's current mental state, he was in no condition to argue the point. "Oh, very well," he grumbled, trying unsuccessfully to push himself up off the ground. "I suppose I don't exactly relish the thought of spending the night in a vehicle which nearly became my coffin."

At hearing her own thoughts echoed in his words, Nellie was too surprised at first to react. But as she saw him struggling to rise, she quickly came to her senses and bent down to help him. Wrapping one of his long arms around her shoulders, she slowly eased him to his feet, straining under his weight. He was a ridiculously tall man, and it was extremely awkward, trying to use herself as a human crutch to prop him up.

Without warning, he swayed slightly and grabbed her injured wrist to steady himself. She yelled in pain, causing him to cringe. "What _is_ the matter with you, Malone? Why are you shrieking like a banshee?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to block out the pain. "It's my damned wrist. I fell on it when you..." She cleared her throat. "When you pushed me out of the jeep."

Charles was silent for a few seconds. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

Somehow, she managed to resist the urge to throw her arms around his neck and give over to uncontrollable sobbing. "Don't be," she said shakily.

After a moment, she was able to compose herself. "Can you lean on the jeep for a minute?" she asked. "I need to see if there's an Ace bandage in the bag to wrap my wrist."

"Don't bother. They've all been used."

Nellie groaned in frustration. "Perfect." She forced herself to think. All she needed was a scrap of cloth to bind up her wrist and keep it from moving too much. Gently shifting Charles's weight against the jeep, she removed her raincoat and field jacket and untucked her tee shirt from her trousers. Working quickly, she tore the hem from the bottom of the shirt and wrapped it tightly around her wrist. Satisfied that it was sufficiently immobilized, she put on her jacket and raincoat again. Then she shoved the canteen and rations inside the medic bag, lifted it onto her shoulder, and picked up Charles's helmet.

"All right," she said, "I'm ready."

"I can hardly contain my enthusiasm," drawled Charles.

"Come on. We've got to get moving." She slung his arm around her shoulders again, and they began their slow, difficult trek back up the ravine to the road.

* * *

For what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour, Maxwell Klinger rose from his chair and walked over to the window above his bunk in the clerk's office, peering out into the gathering darkness. Except for a pair of nurses running toward the mess tent to get out of the rain, all was still in the compound. There was no roar of any distant jeep engines, no pairs of headlights on the horizon. Only the sound of the rain pattering on the tin roof.

No indication at all of Nellie and Winchester's overdue return.

Klinger wasn't too proud to admit it; he was worried. They had been gone for far too long. If they had decided to stay at the aid station overnight, they would have certainly called the 4077th to inform them of their plans. It wasn't like either of them to be irresponsible. Therefore he could only assume that there was another reason for their delay.

And that was something he didn't care to think about.

The truth of the matter was, he'd had his misgivings about the whole enterprise from the very beginning. Aside from the fact that he cared about Nellie and couldn't bear the thought of any harm coming to her, there was also Winchester's recent behavior to consider. He hadn't exactly been the Good Humor Man lately. Despite Colonel Potter's conviction that this little adventure would be the perfect opportunity to smooth out the rough patch they were going through, Klinger couldn't help questioning the wisdom of throwing the two of them into a dangerous situation together, given the obvious tension between them. It was like tossing a match on a pile of dry tinder.

He wished he knew what had gotten into Winchester. Nellie clearly thought the world of him — a high opinion which Klinger had always begrudged just a little — and for a while, it had seemed like the major felt the same way about her. He was certainly a hell of a lot nicer to her than he was to the rest of the camp. But now, he didn't even give her the time of day.

Klinger had to wonder if maybe the major had started liking her a little _too_ much.

It was no secret that the Winchester family had their son's entire life planned out for him from the day he was born; the Roman numeral in his name alone was proof of that. Just as he was expected to attend and excel in the country's best schools, graduate with top honors from the country's best university, and work in one of the country's best hospitals, he was also expected to marry some stuck-up broad from one of the country's oldest and richest families and get cracking on producing the next generation of Winchesters. It would be unthinkable on his part to choose a girl who didn't meet with his family's approval.

Particularly a girl who came from a long line of poor Irish laborers.

It would explain a lot, Klinger had to admit. It would explain why Winchester had suddenly begun avoiding Nellie like the plague, just when they seemed to be growing closer than ever. He supposed he could understand why the major didn't want to let himself fall for her. But the way he was going about it was inexcusable. Nellie didn't deserve to be treated like some no-class tart. Especially by someone who had professed to be her friend.

He made up his mind to talk to Winchester about his behavior as soon as they got back to camp. Whenever that happened to be.

Suddenly the office telephone rang. Klinger dove to answer it, upsetting the papers on his desk. "MASH 4077," he said in a rush.

"Uh, yes, hello," replied a rather harried-sounding voice. "This is Sergeant Cartwright, up at Battalion Aid. You guys haven't been trying to reach us by any chance, have you?"

"You bet we have, Sergeant," Klinger answered irately. "For the last hour, as a matter or fact. What's the big idea?"

"Sorry about that. Our phone line was knocked out by the last round of shellfire, and we've only just gotten it repaired. We had a message relayed to us by the operator that someone at the 4077th named Klinger had tried to get hold of us. Is that you?"

"Yeah, yeah, Corporal Klinger," he said impatiently. "Look, earlier today we sent up a surgeon and a nurse from our unit to lend a hand with your casualties."

"A big guy, kind of a windbag, and a little redhead with glasses?"

Klinger's fist pumped the air. "Yes! So they did get there safe! Oh, thank God!" He took a deep, calming breath. "Are they still with you? Can I talk to them?"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. "Uh, no, no, they left a couple hours ago," said Cartwright. "We offered to let them stay the night, but they were in kind of a rush to get back to their unit." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I wouldn't worry too much, Corporal. The shelling has made a real mess of the roads up here. They probably just got stuck somewhere, and decided to wait for help to come along."

"I hope you're right." Klinger's spirits sank as quickly as they had risen. "Well, thanks for getting back to me, Sergeant."

"Yeah, I'm sorry it took so long. I hope your people get home to you safe and sound."

"Me, too." He hung up the phone with a sigh of frustration. This was getting worse by the minute. If only he knew where they were, or if they were all right. The uncertainty was unbearable.

The door to the colonel's office swung open, and Potter stepped out, looking as worried as Klinger felt. "Did I hear right?" he asked quietly. "Were you just on the phone with Battalion Aid?"

Klinger gave a dismal nod. "Yes, sir. The major and Nellie left the aid station hours ago. Something..." He tried again. "Something must have happened to them."

"Now, let's not jump to any conclusions," the older man replied.

"Why else would they still be out there?" Klinger pushed back his chair and stood resolutely. "Colonel, permission to take a jeep and look for them."

"Permission denied."

He gaped. "But sir—"

Potter held up a hand to silence him. "Take a look outside, Klinger. It's already almost dark, and with this latest storm system coming in, the rain's going to be coming down in buckets. You wouldn't be able to find them, not with a whole _gaggle_ of jeeps."

Klinger couldn't believe what he was hearing. "So, what? We're just going to sit here and do nothing?" he asked incredulously.

The colonel pushed him firmly back down into his chair. "There could be any number of reasons why they're not back yet. Bad weather, car trouble, you name it. Hell, there could have been a local with a cow in labor, and they stopped to help out. We just don't know. And it doesn't do any good to worry yourself to death over it."

At this, the clerk flinched. "Please, sir, don't say that word. Not right now."

"The point is," Potter continued patiently, "if you go out there now, in the state you're in, you'll just end up getting lost yourself. And then I'd have a surgeon, a nurse, _and_ a hot-headed company clerk to look for." Klinger expelled an irritated breath, and Potter laid a hand on his shoulder. "Relax. Odds are, they just ran out of gas, and decided to find a nice spot to camp out for the night."

For a moment, Klinger didn't answer. "You don't get it, sir," he finally said in a low voice. "You don't know how much Nellie means to me. I know she's not my girl anymore, and I'm okay with that. But... if anything happened to her..."

Potter squeezed his shoulder. "I know, son," he said kindly. "Try not to worry. We'll go look for them first thing in the morning."

He nodded almost imperceptibly, and the colonel turned and went back into his office. Klinger stood again and walked over to the door to the compound, staring out into the growing darkness.

_You'd better be taking good care of her, Major,_ he thought grimly.

* * *

"I've been a wild rover for many's the year," Nellie sang wearily as she hauled Charles along with her on the muddy road, "and I spent all me money on whiskey and beer..."

Night had nearly fallen. But while the light receded, the rain had continued to increase in severity. Even with her helmet and raincoat, Nellie felt soggy from the inside out. She couldn't begin to imagine the discomfort her companion must be experiencing, with his splitting headache and the rain beating mercilessly down on his unprotected scalp. But she had decided that, whatever reasons there were behind his recent behavior toward her, he had more than paid for it during the last few hours.

"But now I'm returning with gold in great store, and I never will play the wild rover no more..."

What was worrying her at the moment was the fact that it was almost completely dark, and they still hadn't come upon the village they had passed on the way to the aid station. They had no flashlights, and Charles was becoming less coherent by the minute — not to mention harder to support. With her lousy vision, she would never be able to find their way at night, and he certainly couldn't be expected to do so. They were running low on options.

And she was quickly running out of hope.

She suppressed a sigh and continued on to the chorus. "And it's no, nay, never..." Mother of mercy, her back was killing her. "No, nay, never, no more... Hey. Charles." She nudged him lightly with her elbow. "You're not singing."

"If you'll recall," he slurred, "that is because I categorically refused to do so."

"Yes," she said, unfazed, "but if _you'll_ recall, I said tough cookies. We've got to keep your mind focused somehow. It's either this, or another round of _Hey, Ho, the Wind and the Rain_. It's up to you."

Charles growled in vexation. "I never thought I'd say this, but I think I've had enough of Shakespeare to last several lifetimes."

_Tell me about it,_ thought Nellie. "Well, then, _it's no, nay, never..._"

"No, nay, never, no more," he grumbled under his breath.

She smiled despite herself. "That's the... spirit, I guess."

Her boot slipped on a wet stone, and she lost her footing and stumbled to her knees, taking Charles down along with her. She found herself bearing most of his considerable weight. "Charles," she wheezed, "you're crushing me."

He rolled off to the side, and as she gasped for air, he sat up slowly, clutching at his head. "That tears it," he said, folding his arms over his chest. "I refuse to take another step."

"What?" She squinted at him in the darkness. "You can't just... sit here in the middle of the road."

"Whyever not? Is someone coming?"

Nellie felt her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "No," she said slowly. "But we need to find a dry place, out of this rain."

"You are more than welcome to do so," was his obstinate reply. "I shall remain here."

"But I can't see!" she protested.

"Neither can I!" He winced in pain. "Good Lord, it hurts to shout."

Suddenly a bright flash lit up the night sky, illuminating the landscape for an instant. It was followed a few seconds later by a rumble of thunder — a low, rolling boom that Nellie felt in her bones.

"Oh, God," she groaned miserably. This was all she needed.

"Now, now, Malone," said Charles, in an infuriatingly unconcerned tone, "there's no reason to panic. The chances of being struck by lightning are..." He trailed off.

"Are?" she prompted urgently.

"Err..." He blinked stupidly for a moment. "I seem to have lost my train of thought. What were we talking about?"

"Lightning!"

"Oh, yes. The chances of actually being hit are exceedingly remote." He paused reflectively. "Although I imagine they're a bit higher if one is wearing a metal helmet..."

Nellie felt like crying. "Charles," she nearly wailed.

"All right, all right." He reached out and grasped her hand — thankfully, her uninjured one. "We'll keep going. Be a dear and help me up."

As they staggered forward in the darkness, aided by the occasional flashes of lightning that lit up the road in front of them, Nellie clung to Charles tightly, for her own comfort as much as for his need for assistance. As long as they were together, she wouldn't give up. And she wouldn't let him, either.

Abruptly, he stopped walking, and she very nearly fell again. "What is it?" she asked.

"Wait."

The seconds passed as they stood motionless, staring out into the night. And then the lightning flashed again, and Nellie was able to make out, albeit blurrily, what Charles had seen: the outline of a small building off in the distance, a black silhouette standing out against the slightly less black of the sky. A hut. Shelter.

"I think it's been abandoned," said Charles.

She gave a shrug. "Who cares? It's dry."

"_Touché_."

Feeling a burst of renewed hope, Nellie pressed forward toward the hut, practically dragging Charles the rest of the way.

* * *

If there was one thing Francis Mulcahy wasn't very good at, it was taking requests. He was not a professional pianist by any stretch of the imagination; he simply liked to sit down in front of the keys every once in a while and mess around a bit. It was an enjoyable diversion, something to take his mind off the stresses of wartime here in Korea. He didn't care for the assumption held by every member of the camp that he could play absolutely anything they asked to hear, and they should have learned by experience that the results were never exactly concert hall caliber. But that still didn't seem to stop them from asking anyway.

And, heaven help him, he always obliged. He never could turn down a sincere request.

The Officers' Club was packed to the rafters tonight. As Mulcahy fumbled his way through the second verse of "I'm Old Fashioned", he could barely hear the chords over the noisy din of conversation around him. Everyone appeared to be having a good time, and _nearly_ everyone had a drink in their hand, but to him it seemed almost like a forced, artificial cheer. He suspected they were all trying to take their minds off of their missing colleagues.

It was nearly ten o'clock, and there was still no sign of Major Winchester and Nellie Malone. Mulcahy had been praying for their safe return tonight, but it was becoming apparent that the weather alone had guaranteed that that wouldn't be happening. A change of tactic seemed necessary, and so he prayed instead that they would be kept safe for the time being, wherever they were, and that they would be delivered home safe, as soon as possible.

When the song mercifully came to its end, the chaplain rose and modestly accepted the boisterous applause of his inebriated audience. "Oh, it was nothing, I assure you, friends," he said with a wave of his hand and a faint tint on his cheeks. "If you'll excuse me, my fingers need to be off their feet for a while."

As he picked up his battered white panama hat which rested on top of the piano and returned it to his head, he felt a large hand slap him on the back. He turned to see Hawkeye beaming down at him, his eyes slightly glazed from the effects of whatever alcoholic concoction was currently sloshing around inside him. "Great job, Father," he told him with one of his lazy smiles. "Your music definitely hath the charm to soothe our savage breasts."

"Thank you, Hawkeye," he replied, returning his smile.

"By the way, you know why the piano was invented, don't you?"

"Why is that?" Mulcahy asked with a raised eyebrow, already sensing a joke coming on.

"So that musicians would finally have a place to put their beers."

The priest rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You are incorrigible," he said wryly.

"Sorry, Father." He drained his drink in one gulp and set the glass down on the bar counter. "Well, I'm off to do some Chopin, but don't worry. I have the Liszt, and I'll be Bach in a minuet."

Mulcahy groaned. "Oh, dear. That one was almost too much for me to Handel."

With an evil little chortle, Hawkeye headed toward the door. It opened just as he reached it, and Klinger stepped inside, shaking the rain from his dark hair. "Ah, you're just in time, Klinger," he told him. "Father 'Fast Fingers' Mulcahy is just warming up to play his second set. Eighty-eight hits by Gilbert and Sullivan. One hit for every key."

"I hate to disappoint my fans," the priest said dryly, "but I've just performed my final encore. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go back to my tent and work on something that could _really_ use more practice: my sermons."

As he moved past them on his way to the door, he watched as Hawkeye leaned in close and spoke to Klinger again, in a more subdued tone. "Any news yet about Charles and Nellie?" he asked quietly.

Klinger shook his head morosely. "Not a thing, Captain."

"Oy." The taller man passed a weary hand over his unshaven face, and Mulcahy's suspicions were confirmed; his sprightly demeanor was, like everyone else's, just a façade. "Well, if you hear anything at all, let me know, okay?"

"Yeah, I will."

Hawkeye gave the clerk a reassuring pat on the shoulder, before bidding the two of them good night and leaving the Officers' Club. With a fatigued sigh, Klinger turned to Mulcahy. "Are you really going back to your tent, Father?" he inquired.

Mistakenly, Mulcahy assumed at first that the corporal was merely making conversation. "Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am. This crowd is getting a little too, shall we say, _spirited_ for my tastes." He smiled slightly to show he wasn't all that ruffled by it.

"Do you mind if I walk back with you?"

He blinked, somewhat taken aback by the question. "No, of course not," he answered. "You're more than welcome to accompany me, Klinger." He held out his hand toward the door. "Shall we?"

As they splashed through the compound in the driving rain, the priest cast a surreptitious glance over at Klinger. The man's swarthy face was drawn and haggard, and that usual spark of what Mulcahy had always liked to think of as "cheerful defiance" was missing from his eyes.

He hesitated for a moment, then cleared his throat. "You didn't come to the Officers' Club for a drink then, I take it?" he asked delicately.

Klinger shook his head, very slowly. "Not really, Father. To be honest, I was actually looking for you."

"I had a feeling that might be the case," Mulcahy admitted. "And I think I can guess what's on your mind."

There was a lengthy silence, and Mulcahy began to wonder if perhaps Klinger hadn't heard him. Then the clerk swallowed hard. "I think I may be cracking up," he finally said. His voice was low, bleak, hopeless. "And I'm not just saying it this time. I mean, really going nuts. I can't help it, Father. I'm trying not to think the worst, but I just... I keep picturing Nellie and Major Winchester dead in a ditch somewhere, and I..." He exhaled shakily. "I don't know whether I want to scream, or throw up, or put my fist through a wall. But I feel like I have to do _something._ Doing _nothing_ is what's making me crazy."

Mulcahy felt his heart ache in sympathy as he listened to the man. He knew Klinger cared for Nellie deeply. It didn't matter that the two of them were no longer sweethearts; that special bond would always be there. The chaplain had grown quite fond of her, as well. And Major Winchester, even with his snobbish, superior ways, was truly a good man — far better than he would have anyone else know. To lose either of them would be a terrible tragedy.

"I understand how frustrated you must be," he told Klinger as they arrived at the chaplain's tent and stepped in out of the rain. He removed his hat and raincoat and flicked on his lamp, banishing the shadows from his modest little sanctuary. "It's never easy to resign ourselves to inaction, knowing that our loved ones could be in danger. In fact, it feels very much like admitting defeat."

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Father," Klinger replied fervently. He began to pace restlessly back and forth in the small space. "I just can't stand the fact that we're not even _trying_ to find them. Doesn't the colonel _want_ to get them back? Doesn't he care at _all?_"

"Of _course_ he cares," Mulcahy assured him. "But you must look at the situation from his point of view. Sending out a search party tonight, in this dreadful weather, just wouldn't be practical. The likelihood of finding Nellie and the major would be extremely low." Klinger snorted disrespectfully, but he chose to let it slide. "You know I'm right about this, Klinger," he said, by no means unkindly.

The other man stopped pacing and stared pensively out the window in the door of the tent, his hands clasped behind his back so tightly that his knuckles were white. It seemed to Mulcahy that he was experiencing some sort of inner battle between his emotions and his innate common sense, and there was no way of knowing which side would win.

When at last he spoke, his voice was that of a man who had reached his breaking point. "I know," he whispered hoarsely. "I know there's nothing else we can do but wait, and hope." He gave a quiet sniff. "But that's just not good enough, Father. Not for me."

Mulcahy laid a hand on his shoulder. "There is one other thing you could do," he suggested quietly.

Klinger turned to him. "Yeah?"

He smiled. "Pray," he said simply.

The corporal's cheeks colored. "Oh, I, uh," he stammered uncomfortably, "I don't know. I haven't prayed since I was a kid. I'm not even sure I believe in all of that stuff. No offense to your line of work, Father," he added hastily.

"None taken," Mulcahy replied with a chuckle. "I won't deny that it takes a lot of faith to believe in a higher power. But let me ask you a question, Klinger. When you think about the vastness and the complexity of the universe, the beauty of the natural world, and the great love that we ourselves are capable of feeling toward our fellow human beings... doesn't it take just as much faith to believe that it all just... came about by chance?"

Klinger was silent for a moment as he absorbed the priest's words. "You could have a point there," he conceded reluctantly.

Mulcahy smiled again. "We all of us have doubts from time to time. Including myself. But those are the times when we need help the most. Help from someone stronger than we could ever be on our own."

He shrugged as his gaze strayed to the window again. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Klinger." The clerk turned back toward him. "You already knew, before you even came looking for me in the Officers' Club, what I would say to you. And yet you sought me out anyway. I can only conclude that you did so because, deep down, you wanted to hear it."

For a long moment, Klinger stared at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Then something in his manner seemed to relax. "I really don't even remember how to pray," he admitted quietly.

Mulcahy nodded. "Well, that's all right," he said easily. "He knows what you want to say, and that's what counts. I'll tell you what," he added as an afterthought. "I myself was just about to pray for Nellie and Major Winchester's safe return. Why don't you join me?"

Klinger's lips twitched in a shadow of a smile. "I guess that would be okay," he answered.

As Mulcahy went over to his desk to retrieve his Bible, the clerk cleared his throat. "To be honest, Father, I've never really thought of myself as an atheist. I just used to say that to Major Burns, to get him to make that face. You know the one I'm talking about?"

"Oh, dear me, yes," the priest said in amusement. "The one where his cheeks would turn purple, and his lips would turn white?"

"Lips? What lips?"

Mulcahy burst out laughing, pleased to see that that mischievous light had at last returned to his friend's eyes.

* * *

_Well, it's not exactly the Ritz-Carlton, but it'll do,_ Nellie thought resignedly as she followed Charles inside the abandoned hut.

From what she could make out, which was next to nothing, the little building was only a single room, no more than ten feet by twelve, with a dirt floor and a small window set in the wall facing the door. Whoever the previous occupants had been, they had seemingly departed in a hurry; no doubt they had fled south, away from the battle lines. There were scattered possessions everywhere, including a low table, a couple of cushions, and a straw-filled mattress, all of which would have been too cumbersome and impractical to carry.

With a sigh of sheer relief, Charles made a bee-line for the mattress and quite literally collapsed onto it. Nellie's relief was only marginally less palpable as she unshouldered the medic bag and set it on the table, along with Charles's helmet. Finally, she took off her own helmet and placed it beside his.

"Oh, good Lord, yes," she breathed.

She could almost feel Charles's smile in the darkness. "My word, I had no idea you were such a sybarite, Malone," he said wryly.

Her lips twitched, threatening to betray her amusement. "Your concussion must not be too severe, if you can still muster the mental energy to make fun of me."

"On the contrary," was his fatigued reply, "it feels as though a very small percussionist were playing Ravel's 'Bolero' on the interior of my skull."

Nellie winced in sympathy. A sudden idea occurred to her, and she grabbed the canteen from the medic bag and set it upright outside the door. While she waited for it to accumulate rainwater, she shrugged out of her raincoat and field jacket and laid them out to dry, trying her best to block out the thunderstorm raging outside. As she did so, her fingers bumped against something lying on the floor. It was the stump of a candle.

With an almost inordinate burst of excitement, Nellie fished into the pockets of her raincoat until she found what she was looking for: a flint and a small pocketknife. Holding them close to the candle, she struck the knife blade repeatedly, until finally a spark fell upon the wick, and a faint but cozy glow illuminated the little room.

She realized she was grinning, for the first time in what seemed like forever. For a moment she simply sat there, staring down at the tiny dancing flame.

"You look so very beautiful."

Nellie turned toward Charles's voice in surprise. "I... do?" she asked weakly, her cheeks feeling rather hot all of a sudden. She cleared her throat. "You'll have to forgive me for doubting you, but I'm pretty sure I look like a drowned rat at the moment."

He made no reply. After a while, Nellie was forced to conclude that his statement had more than likely been the result of delirium. With a sigh, she took one of the helmets from the table. Picking up the candle stub, she carefully poured a few drops of melted wax onto the surface of the helmet before placing the candle on top.

"There," she said, setting her improvised candle holder back on the table, "dinner by candlelight."

"Dinner?" Charles echoed.

"Well, of a sort," she amended. "C-rations and rainwater." She rummaged around in the medic bag and held the packages close to her face, squinting at the labels. "Which would you prefer? Canned poundcake with jam, or canned biscuits with gravy?"

He made a little wordless noise of distaste. "Upon further reflection, I find I don't really have much of an appetite."

"Yeah, me neither," she muttered, tossing the cans aside.

She went back outside to retrieve the canteen, nearly tripping over one of the cushions on the ground as another crash of thunder startled the daylights out of her. As she came back in, she realized Charles hadn't even bothered to take off his raincoat.

"You're dripping all over the mattress, you know," she told him as she replaced the lid on the canteen.

"Heaven forbid I should do anything to befoul this immaculate abode," he replied dully.

Nellie couldn't help but smile; even when he was concussed, he was well-spoken. "Here, let me help," she said, sitting down beside him on the lumpy mattress. As she assisted him to peel off his wet coat, she tried to ignore the fact that he was gazing at her intently, albeit a little blearily. After laying out his coat next to hers, she returned to his side and offered him the canteen. "The water will help with your headache," she said, "but I can't give you any aspirin."

"Yes, I know. Thank you." He took a few swallows and handed it back to her. "How is your wrist?" he asked quietly.

"Not bad."

"You're not a very good liar, Malone."

She blushed. "Fair enough," she conceded. "It's... kind of bad. But I'll live." _Thanks to you,_ she added mentally, her throat tightening.

Suddenly she nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt Charles's fingertips brush lightly over her cheekbone. Her heart began to pound in her chest, while he continued to stroke her face. "You're soaked to the bone," he observed idly.

Nellie swallowed, for some reason unable to move or even react to his touch. "How astute of you to notice," she returned weakly.

Gently, he pushed a few sodden red curls out of her eyes. "I wish there was something I could do," he remarked.

Realization abruptly dawned on her. It seemed Charles was simply attempting, ineffectually, to wipe the rain from her face, and in his current mental state, it hadn't occurred to him that it might seem inappropriate. All at once, she felt a little foolish. "Don't worry about it," she said with a light shrug. "I'm an Oregonian. I'm used to it."

As his fingers continued to explore the planes of her face, she fought the urge to close her eyes. "I..." She cleared her throat, trying to focus on what she was saying. "I bet it's raining in Oregon right now. The flowers are all blooming, too, no doubt."

Nellie's breath caught in her throat as he traced her eyebrow lightly, caressingly. "Roses," she blurted. "We have lots of roses in Oregon. In fact, Portland is called the City of Roses." Her face felt like it was on fire, spreading from each point of contact with Charles's fingers.

"And umm... What else? Rhododendrons... daffodils... tulips... Oh, God." This last sentence was uttered as a shaky exhalation as Charles relocated his lazy exploration to the line of her jaw. Her hands tightened reflexively in her lap as she struggled to keep her composure.

"And irises. How could I forget about the irises?" Now his fingers were making their way slowly down the column of her throat. She nearly bit through her lip. "My middle name is Iris, you know."

His fingers stopped. "Is it?" he murmured, and she jumped again. His lips were very, very close to hers. "I don't believe you ever told me that."

She nearly whimpered as those incredible fingers traveled to the nape of her neck, playing delicately over the sensitive skin. "Didn't I?" she breathed.

As Charles shook his head, she felt his nose brush lightly against hers. Involuntarily, her eyes slipped shut in anticipation.

And then, inexplicably, he moved away from her. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at him in open confusion. But the eyes that returned her gaze were hazy, unfocused. "I'm sorry, I... I hardly know what I'm doing," he said, rubbing wearily at his face. "Forgive me, Malone."

Nellie felt her heart plummet to her stomach in realization. How could she have forgotten? The man had a concussion.

He didn't know what he was doing.

"It's all right," she said, feeling sick. "You should just try and get some rest."

Charles nodded. "Yes, perhaps that would be best. I can barely keep my eyes open as it is."

Carefully, she eased him down onto the mattress, retrieving one of the cushions and placing it under his head. "Shall I blow out the candle?" she asked.

"If you wish."

She blew it out, leaving them in darkness. There was a quiet rustle, and she felt Charles reach out and lightly take hold of her arm. Instinctively, she tensed, but he gently but insistently pulled her down to lie alongside him. As he slipped his hand into hers, she suddenly felt like crying, and she didn't quite know why.

"Good night, Malone," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.

She shifted just close enough to rest her head on his shoulder. In response, his hand tightened its grasp on her own. "Good night, Charles," she whispered, feeling a tear slip down her cheek.

* * *

A/N: Okay. I didn't want to end it there, but I had to. It's all part of the plan. Also, I wrote most of this in one day! I'm snowed in for the time being, and I had nothing else to do. Please do review and tell me what you thought. I'd really appreciate it.

- Octopus


	20. Getting Physically Emotional

A/N: Yesss! I have been looking forward to writing this chapter since I first started this story. Finally it's here! But first, I would like to express my thanks to everyone who reviewed, and especially to **Jen Lennon**, for her help as my beta reader (you were right, your way _is_ more dramatic!), and to **4077fan**, for taking the time to review every chapter, and for being such a doll! Thank you both!

Disclaimer: I don't own _M*A*S*H_. Blah blah blah.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twenty: Getting Physically Emotional

The first thing Charles noticed upon waking was that the rain had stopped, at least momentarily. He could hear the intermittent patter of the water dripping from the thatched roof of the hut, but the steady roar of the Biblical-grade deluge that had plagued the Gyeonggi province for the past several weeks was gone. In its place, there was the chirping of small songbirds, accompanied by the occasional hoarse croak of some species of crow. A pale gray morning light shone in through the window, weakly illuminating the ramshackle interior of the little hut.

The second thing he noticed was that his right arm was completely numb.

At the moment, however, he couldn't quite bring himself to care. In fact, as he lay gazing down at the cause of his current discomfort, he found himself wishing that he could wake up like this every morning.

Fenella Malone was curled up against his side, fast asleep, her arm draped across his chest and her face buried in the crook of his neck. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, and once again he lazily attempted to identify the fragrance. He had it narrowed down to Japanese cherry blossom, but there was some other, more subtle base note that he couldn't quite place. After a while he gave up, and contented himself with simply inhaling it as deeply as he could without waking her.

Finally, after pausing to lock the moment safely away in a corner of his memory, Charles gently disentangled himself from Malone's arms and sat up. His head began to pound in protest, an unwelcome reminder of his injury. He forced himself to breathe evenly until the throbbing abated.

As he took the cushion and eased it under Malone's head, she gave a catlike stretch in her sleep, and something caught his eye: a small beauty mark on her neck, just under her jawline. Being so much taller than her, he had never before been in a position to observe her from this angle. For some reason, he was mesmerized by the sight. Before he could even stop himself, he had already brushed her hair aside and begun lightly tracing over the freckle with his thumb.

It was a testament to the depth and intensity of his affection that even with her clothing torn and filthy, her makeup smudged, and her hair beyond salvation, he still found her simply breathtaking. Without her glasses, the contours of her face were rendered softer, more womanly, and her slightly parted lips were indescribably tempting. Reluctantly, he was forced to give Klinger credit where credit was due; whatever the corporal's innumerable other failings, he certainly had good taste in this instance.

Charles also couldn't help but notice the several inches of bare midriff that were showing between her khaki trousers and the torn hem of her shirt, which had been sacrificed to bandage her wrist. As her little chest rose and fell with every breath, he could see the outline of her ribs under her pale skin. She had clearly lost a significant amount of weight recently. His initial reaction was to blame it on the inedible food back at camp, but he couldn't help wondering if _he_ might have had a hand in it.

Guilt and self-loathing began to gnaw at him as he watched her sleep. In his own efforts to distance himself from her and prevent his own traitorous heart from causing him to do something stupid, he had managed to make the woman he loved absolutely miserable. Of course, he had known that she cared for him. But it was not until her outburst in the jeep, which already seemed like a lifetime ago, that he fully began to realize how much he meant to her.

The realization was humbling, and consumed him with guilt. But he was determined now to make amends. Whatever might happen, he would find a way to overcome his feelings, without causing damage to her own.

Slowly, he sank his fingers into her hair, knowing he was only torturing himself. But did he really _need_ to? he wondered. Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as he was allowing himself to imagine. After all, Malone had been such a comfort to him these past months. She had brought grace and culture and civility to an otherwise black time in his life. And how could he forget the events of the last twenty-four hours? She had tended his injury, had cared for him, had kept him going when he felt like giving up. Surely his parents wouldn't disapprove of such a sweet, selfless young woman, especially after learning what she had done for their only son?

_Their only son._ Charles squeezed his eyes shut. He would never be allowed to forget that. Things would be so very different, if his younger brother Timmy were alive. Still, didn't his own happiness count for anything? Wouldn't his family understand, if they knew he couldn't bear the thought of spending his life with anyone else?

Malone sighed softly in her sleep. Suddenly, he had the insane urge to lean down and kiss her awake, like in all the fairy tales his nanny read to him when he was a child. But even as the ridiculous thought crossed his mind, she began to stir, and he realized that his hand was caught in her hair. He tried to extricate it, but he evidently pulled too hard. With a small squeak, her eyelids flew open, and her gaze quickly landed on his as she stared up at him in obvious surprise.

"Good morning, Malone," he said evenly.

"Good morning," she answered slowly, her cheeks flushing as her gaze flickered to his hand in her hair. "May I ask what you're doing?"

Charles cleared his throat. "I should have thought it obvious," he replied with an air of feigned levity. "I'm making a fool of myself."

A smile spread over her face, and he felt his heart swell. She rose to a sitting position and helped him to free his hand from the tangled wilderness of red curls. As their fingers brushed, her eyes met his again. There was some strong emotion in her gaze which caused his breath to catch in his throat.

And then her gaze traveled up to the bandage on his head. "It's much better," he found himself blurting, in answer to her unspoken question. "Still a bit tender, but vastly improved compared to yesterday."

Malone didn't seem to hear him at first. Then she nodded, her brow furrowing slightly as she absorbed this information. "Good," she said at last. "I'm relieved to hear it."

Her attention shifted to the window, and she seemed to come back to earth. "It's stopped raining," she observed with some surprise.

"Try not to be too terribly disappointed," Charles said wryly.

He watched as she attempted to push herself to her feet, then winced as she put too much weight on her injured wrist. Quickly, he grasped her under her arms and gently helped her upright. She moved to the door and pushed it open on its broken, rusted hinges. For a long while she stared out at the drenched landscape.

At length she shook her head. "I guess I wasn't paying much attention when we came through here yesterday," she said. "I really thought the village we'd passed was a lot closer, though." She sighed. "So much for finding help last night."

As she stood leaning against the doorjamb, he couldn't help but smile at the way the morning light fell on her disheveled hair, making it look like her entire head had burst into flames.

She turned and noticed him watching her. "What is it?" she asked, arching a single eyebrow.

Charles shook his head as he joined her in the open doorway. "Your hair is an absolute shambles," he told her in amusement.

She shot a smirk at him. "Jealous?"

He stared at her in shock, not quite sure if he had heard her correctly. Then her eyes widened, and a bandaged hand flew up to her mouth. "Oh, my God," she exclaimed, looking as surprised as he was. "I'm so sorry! I can't believe I said that!"

Charles burst out laughing. Malone's freckled cheeks turned a vivid pink hue, but he just kept laughing until his head began to pound and there were tears in his eyes. "Well, well," he said, when he had finally caught his breath, "it would seem I'm not the only one who is not a 'morning person'."

Malone appeared sufficiently mortified. "Apparently not," she replied, looking down at her boots. "I'm sorry, Charles. That was uncalled for."

Before he was aware of it, his hand was resting lightly on her back. "You needn't punish yourself, my dear," he told her. "I deserved it, and a great deal more."

At this she turned abruptly and went back inside, busying herself with adjusting the makeshift bandage on her wrist, which had come loose during the night. Her posture was very straight and, he thought, rather tense. "Am I to take it that I'm back in your good graces, then?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

His guilt quickly returned with a vengeance. How could he explain his recent coldness toward her, without revealing the reason behind it? If she knew the truth, it would only complicate matters further. Besides which, their friendship would never be the same again. But he had to say _something._ At the very least, she deserved some sort of explanation.

Swallowing hard, he stepped closer to her, under the pretense of assisting her with her bandage. "Malone," he began somewhat stiffly as he took her wrist and began slowly unwrapping it, "I realize I have been a bit... chilly of late with regard to you."

A snort escaped her. "Alert the papers," she said bitterly. "Charles Emerson Winchester has just made the understatement of the century." The sting of her sarcasm was lessened by the hurt which was clearly evident in her voice.

Suppressing a sigh, he forced himself to focus on his task. "You must understand, Malone," he continued, as he proceeded with special care to bind up her wrist, "that when I said you'd done nothing wrong, I meant it. You are not to blame yourself for my behavior."

"I don't."

Under the circumstances, Charles found it surprisingly easy to let the comment slide. "Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "Suffice it to say, it had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with my own... neurotic insecurities."

He didn't have to look up to know that Malone's expressive face was contorted into a frown. "What do you mean?"

He shook his head wearily. "Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear. Just a touch of inner turmoil on my part." He took a deep breath. "The point is, Malone, I mistakenly thought that the best course of action was to isolate myself from everyone, and from you, in particular. I can see now, of course, that it was the wrong decision. I... I find I..." He broke off abruptly.

_I need you._

"I... consider it an honor," he went on, when he had mastered his emotions, "to be counted among your friends, even if I am entirely unworthy of the title." He finished wrapping her wrist, but didn't release her hand. "I have been an abysmal fool, Malone," he said quietly. "I can only hope that your capacity for forgiveness is greater than mine, for I shall never forgive myself."

Slowly, her other hand came up to cover his own. "No apologies are necessary, Charles," she said softly. "I forgive you."

He looked up at her in surprise. "You do?" he asked, rather weakly.

She nodded. That intense, unreadable emotion was in her eyes again. "God knows you've done enough to make up for it."

"I?" Charles could hardly believe his ears. "I've done nothing. On the contrary, you were the one who cared for my injury, who dragged my cumbersome carcass through the... the wind and the rain." He smiled warmly. "I shall be forever indebted to you for that, Malone."

She was shaking her head vehemently, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "There's no debt, Charles. Don't be ridiculous." She looked up at him, and seemed to notice his confusion. Her eyes became wide as saucers. "You... You don't know, do you?"

"I think it's fairly obvious that I don't," he answered, somewhat frustrated.

Her grip on his hand tightened. "Charles," she whispered, almost to herself. She sounded so frightened, it was all he could do to restrain himself from pulling her close. "When our jeep hit that tree, a branch went straight through my side of the windshield. If I had been sitting there... I would have almost certainly been killed."

As Charles stared down at her, he felt himself grow cold, as if an icy hand had reached in between his ribs and frozen his heart in his chest. "Good God, Malone," he said hoarsely.

A tear slipped from her eye and rolled down her freckled cheek. "You saved my life, Charles," she said, her voice breaking.

He drew her into his arms and held her tightly, possessively. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, and he buried his face in her hair, his eyes tightly shut. Her thin shoulders began to shake with silent sobs, and Charles rubbed her back soothingly as she wept into his shirtfront. In truth, his own eyes were beginning to sting terribly.

He could have lost her. His Malone. His darling girl.

Without even realizing it, he was pressing kisses into her hair. It was odd, to say the least, how frequently she seemed to cause his body to act without permission from his brain. She continued to cling to him fiercely, as if he might be taken from her at any moment. Unfortunately, as much as he wished he could remain like this indefinitely, he was finding it a bit difficult to breathe.

At last, she unwound her arms from around his neck and held his hands loosely in hers. Her face was streaked with drying tears, and when she spoke, her voice still wavered slightly. "As I was saying," she resumed, "you saved my life. That's why I can easily forgive you for being... well, a jerk." A ghost of her crooked smile briefly graced her lips. "Because even in spite of your recent behavior, I know you care. I _know_ it."

She gazed up at him, with what could only be described as adoration. "You can't fool me, Charles," she said softly. "You can pretend all you like, but you'll never persuade me to believe that you are anything but wonderful."

A sudden, unwelcome lump formed in Charles's throat. For a long moment, he couldn't bring himself to speak. "Well," he finally said awkwardly. "I suppose I can live with that." He swallowed, betraying his true emotional state. "On the condition that you promise never to tell another living soul."

Malone gave him a conspiratorial nod. "Your secret's safe with me," she murmured, with another smile.

Slowly, he returned her smile. To his disappointment, she released his hands and began wiping at her damp cheeks. He fished around in his pockets, until he found a rumpled handkerchief, which she accepted gratefully. "I must look revolting," she said with an embarrassed laugh as she dried her eyes.

Charles realized with some surprise that it had been weeks since he'd heard her laugh. He couldn't believe how much he had missed it. "Not at all," he replied fondly.

She cast an affectionate glance up at him, and he felt his pulse quicken. He watched as she folded his handkerchief into a neat little square and handed it back to him. "There's one thing that puzzles me," she said suddenly.

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Mmm." She nodded pensively, her brow furrowed. "You said you'd been experiencing inner turmoil." At this Charles felt himself tense involuntarily. "What did you mean by that? What sort of inner turmoil?"

Oh, Lord. That was precisely the question he had been hoping she wouldn't ask. He shook his head dismissively. "It's nothing, I assure you, Malone."

Her frown deepened. "'Nothing'?" she repeated in disbelief. "You were shutting me out of your life for _nothing?_"

"No, no, that's not at all what I meant." He passed a hand wearily over his unshaven face. He could feel a headache coming on already. "I only meant that I would prefer not to discuss it."

"Charles..." She sighed to herself. "I'm your friend. That's what friends do. They listen to each other's problems. I know you like your privacy, but you don't have to keep absolutely _everything_ to yourself. If something is bothering you, I'd like to help, if I can."

"Thank you," he said, slowly and evenly, trying not to lose his patience, "but this is a very... delicate problem."

"I really don't want to pry—"

"Then don't," he interrupted sharply.

She stared up at him with wide eyes, clearly taken aback.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. "Malone. I am grateful to you for your concern. But this is something I must deal with on my own. No," he said firmly as she started to protest, "I'm afraid I must insist on this. It would only worry you if you knew, and I refuse to subject you to any more distress than I already have."

She shook her head in frustration. "But Charles—"

"Malone, _please._" He took her uninjured hand and squeezed it. "Please respect my wishes." She sighed again. "Is that not _also_ what friends do?" he pressed.

The girl regarded him intently for a long moment. Finally her shoulders seemed to relax. "As far as explanations go, it's a less than satisfactory one," she remarked, somewhat wryly. "But I guess I'll take it anyway." She looked up at him again, and her expression softened. "I missed you so much."

Charles fought the urge to pull her into his arms again. He really needed to learn to control himself around her. As it was, he had very nearly abandoned all attempts at self-restraint the night before, when he had almost kissed her. He'd blamed it on his concussion, but there wasn't exactly an abundance of situations in which he could use that as an excuse.

Instead, he settled for another squeeze of her hand. "I know," he murmured. His thumb absently traced a path across her knuckles. "If there is _anything_ I can do to make up for my abominable behavior, you've only to name it."

Her lop-sided smile returned. "How about a game of Go when we get back to camp?" she suggested with a distinct air of hope. "After we've both showered, and changed, and made ourselves fit to rejoin civilized society, of course."

He chuckled. "It's a promise," he replied warmly.

Her fingers tightened around his.

Suddenly there was a rustling sound in the underbrush outside. Charles grabbed Malone and pulled her with him against the wall of the hut, raising a finger to his lips. She nodded silently, her green eyes wide with fear. Very slowly, he began to crane his head forward toward the open doorway.

Which was when he heard the clucking of a chicken.

"Good Lord," he muttered, releasing his iron grip on Malone. He edged his way around the doorframe to see a fat, gray-and-white speckled hen scratching the ground outside. "It's all right," he said, feeling like an utter fool. "Just a false alarm. It seems we've been hiding from poultry."

She slumped against the wall in relief, her hand over her chest. "Oh, for God's sake. I think I just suffered seven consecutive heart attacks." Suddenly she stood up straight. "Wait a minute," she said in an entirely new tone. "Poultry? As in, _domestic_ poultry?"

"As far as I am aware, there are no packs of wild chickens roaming the Korean countryside," he answered dryly.

"Flocks," Malone corrected absently.

"I... What?"

"A group of chickens is called a flock. Or a brood. Or sometimes a clutch, if you're talking about chicks, but most of the time—"

"_Malone_," he said pointedly.

"The point is, the chicken must belong to somebody. Which means there must be somebody living nearby." She stepped around him to peer out the door. "If we can catch the chicken and bring it back to them, they might even do us a favor in return. Like sending word to the 4077th to let them know where we are."

Charles regarded her incredulously. "Rather wishful thinking, you must admit."

"A fair point." Malone chewed her lip thoughtfully for a moment. "All right, how's this? If we don't find the chicken's owner, we cook it and eat it."

He cast a sharp glance at her, and she raised her eyebrows meaningfully. As if on cue, his stomach gave a rumble. Neither of them had partaken of any of the C-rations the night before, and the thought of fresh poultry was gaining more appeal by the second.

"My girl, you are a genius," he said.

* * *

Even under the best of circumstances, B.J. was not a fan of rude awakenings. He'd never been particularly perky in the mornings to begin with, but this was especially true after pulling an all-nighter in Post-Op. At times like these, he couldn't really be held responsible for anything he might do or say.

Which included death threats against the company clerk.

"Klinger," he growled into his lumpy pillow, "if you don't get out here right now, I'm gonna pick you up and throw you across the compound like a lawn dart."

"Please, Captain," Klinger continued beseechingly as he knelt beside the blond surgeon's cot, heedless of the murderous glint in the latter's eyes. "You've got to help me! You're the only person in the camp I can ask!"

"Ask _what?_" B.J. demanded irritably.

Klinger took a deep breath. "I need you to come with me to look for Nellie and Major Winchester," he said.

"Dammit, Klinger, you woke me up for _that?_" He glared at the swarthy corporal through slitted eyelids. "I just fell asleep an hour ago! I'm exhausted! Besides, what do you need me for, anyway? Just take Rizzo, or one of the other corpsmen!"

"I can't!" Klinger protested. "They're not doctors! If I— _When_ I find them, they might be hurt. There's not a whole lot I can do if they are. Someone needs to come along who knows what to do, just in case. I can't ask the colonel, because he's busy calling all of the other outfits in the area for any news. And Captain Pierce has Post-Op duty. That just leaves you, sir."

Despite himself, B.J. couldn't help thinking that Klinger only addressed him as "sir" when things were really serious. Still, he wasn't convinced. "Look," he said, propping himself up on his elbow. "Charles is a doctor. As much as I hate to admit it, he's a _great_ doctor. And Nellie's a great nurse. They both know their stuff. They can take care of themselves." He rolled over emphatically and shut his eyes. "Now let me go back to sleep."

"Yeah? And what if they're both hurt?" Klinger pressed urgently. "What if they're both out there somewhere, unconscious and bleeding to death? What then?"

"Klinger..." B.J. sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt. "They're probably just fine."

There was a short silence. When the clerk spoke again, his voice was low and accusing. "You'd go if it was Hawkeye out there."

Abruptly, the twinge became a full-fledged kick to the gut. Klinger was right. He _would_ go. In fact, he'd be fighting the driver for his seat in the search vehicle.

With another sigh, B.J. sat up and rubbed his unshaven face. "Hand me my pants," he said wearily.

"Thank you, B.J., thank you, thank you!" Klinger picked up his rumpled trousers and fairly threw them at him. "I swear I'll make it up to you! I'll buy San Francisco and have it shipped here, crate by crate!"

"Nah, too much expense," B.J. replied, as he proceeded to shove his foot through the wrong pant leg. "Just stuff me in a crate and have me shipped there instead."

By the time he'd laced up his boots and found his combat helmet under a pile of dirty socks and playing cards, Klinger was already at the motor pool with Sergeant Rizzo, signing out one of the jeeps. Father Mulcahy was there with his Bible and his stole, saying a blessing over the vehicle. As he finished, he took note of B.J.'s raised eyebrows and offered a sheepish smile.

"I realize neither of you are Catholic, but I thought it couldn't hurt," he explained. "In any event, you're, ah... _covered_, as it were."

B.J. chuckled. "Good to know, Father."

As he stood there squinting against the early morning light, he tried to tell himself that he was doing the right thing. If he were stranded somewhere in a foreign country, he would want someone looking for him. And at least, for the moment anyway, it had finally stopped raining. That would make things easier. Sort of.

He shook his head vigorously, trying to wake himself up. At that moment Margaret came jogging up, her hair in disarray and her shirt on backwards. Evidently she had woken in haste, as well.

She had an emergency medic bag hanging from her shoulder, and two cups of coffee in her hands. How she had managed not to slosh most of it on herself was nothing short of miraculous. "Here, drink up," she ordered, handing the mugs to him and Klinger. "You boys need to stay alert. You'll never find anyone if you're dead on your feet."

"Thanks, Margaret," B.J. said gratefully.

She nodded dismissively as she put the medic bag in the jeep. As he gulped down the hot liquid, he became aware of the sound of footsteps approaching from the direction of the mess tent. He turned to see Private Straminsky loping toward them on his ridiculously long legs.

"Special delivery, Captain," he said, holding up a large thermos. "Compliments of the chef."

B.J. frowned as the private handed it to him. "What is it?"

Straminsky seemed slightly embarrassed. "It's not much. Just some tomato soup. The cook and I heard you guys were going to look for Nurse Malone and Major Winchester, and we thought... they might be hungry when you find them." He gave a rolling shrug. "I tried it myself. It's not completely awful."

"I'm sure they'll appreciate it, Igor," B.J. replied, as he stowed the thermos safely under the seat. Klinger grinned and clapped the private on the shoulder.

B.J. downed the dregs of his coffee, trying not to gag on the taste. Klinger, on the other hand, wisely poured the rest of his out on the ground. Margaret took the mugs and stepped back.

"Bring my nurse back safe, you hear?" She smiled wryly. "And Charles, too, I guess."

"You got it, toots." B.J. climbed into the passenger seat, while Klinger got in behind the wheel. "We'll be back before you can say 'What the hell are we all doing in Korea, anyway?'"

Klinger turned the engine over, and the jeep roared to life. "Good luck!" Margaret shouted as they began to pull away.

"Thanks, Major!" Klinger called back. "By the way," he added over his shoulder, "your shirt's on backwards!"

Margaret's mouth fell open, and B.J. couldn't help chuckling as they drove off in search of their missing friends.

* * *

Charles often found himself marveling at the strange turns his life had taken in such a relatively short period of time. Being sentenced to drudgery in a mobile hospital over a cribbage game, for instance. Who could have ever seen that coming? Falling head-over-heels in love in the middle of a war-zone was another example. That had certainly never been on his to-do list, and yet here he was. It was as if the universe was one big squash court, and he was the ball.

But surely — surely _this_ took the proverbial cake.

The only male heir of one of the oldest families in Boston, walking down a deserted road in rural Korea, while the unknowing object of his affections walked beside him, whistling a merry little tune and carrying a chicken in her arms.

The tune in question was Humoresque no. 7 by Dvořák, and the chicken was... surprisingly docile. It just sat there, completely unconcerned, as Malone held it in her left arm and lightly stroked its speckled feathers with the fingers of her injured hand. Occasionally, it would give a cluck, or move its head in that quick, jerky manner that birds possessed. But otherwise, it seemed perfectly content to be lugged around like a sack of potatoes.

Charles shook his head in bemusement. If only his friends and family back home could see him now. What would they say?

He knew exactly what his sister would say: nothing. She'd be too busy laughing her head off.

Still, he had to concede that it wasn't all bad. He had missed Malone's whistling; other than his records and the butchered renditions of his tent mates, he hadn't heard classical music in weeks. And she was whistling her favorite composer, which always meant she was in high spirits.

Charles was glad.

Before long, he found himself whistling the harmony along with her. She looked up at him in mild surprise, but didn't stop. Together they finished the piece, and Malone held the final note as long as she could, until at last she broke down laughing.

"Something tells me neither of us are going to be accepted into Juilliard any time soon," she said in amusement.

"Speak for yourself," Charles retorted, arching a haughty eyebrow.

She grinned and elbowed him playfully, which for some reason made him absurdly happy. "Nice try, Maestro," she said with a mischievous smirk, "but I've heard plenty of stories circulating around the camp about your infamous French horn. Is it true that Hawkeye and B.J. refused to bathe until you agreed to stop playing?"

He scowled in remembrance. "Every malodorous moment of it," he replied dryly. "Naturally, I refused to yield to their childish demands."

"Naturally," said Malone with a knowing smile.

"Which, of course, led to my beloved instrument being appropriated by our plebeian of a head nurse and flattened summarily under a jeep." He heaved a histrionic sigh. "Cut down in its prime. Truly it was too sublime for this world."

She burst into laughter again, and Charles realized he had been purposely trying to make her laugh. He couldn't get enough of it.

As they walked, he glanced down the chicken in her arms, still amazed at how tame it was. "Are you sure you don't want me to carry our feathered friend for a while?" he asked at length. "You really shouldn't be putting your wrist under any more strain."

"I'm all right," she said easily. "None of her weight is actually on my right arm. Besides, you're carrying the medic bag, _and_ our raincoats." She patted the chicken. "I think I can handle Gloria here."

"Gloria?" He raised his eyebrows, fighting an amused smile. "You _do_ realize that if you name the chicken, you won't want to eat it."

Malone shook her head firmly. "Gloria is the name of my uncle's wife. And trust me, I'll still want to eat her."

It was Charles's turn to laugh. "Malone, you are a strange little thing," he said fondly.

Under her helmet, her face flushed prettily, and her crooked smile returned. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she teased lightly.

_There _are_ no other girls,_ he almost said, but managed to catch himself at the last second. In fact, it was fortunate that his arms were already full, or he might have done any number of foolish and impulsive things.

Suddenly she stopped in mid-stride, lifting her nose into the air. "Do you... Do you smell that?" she asked, her brow slightly furrowed.

Charles paused and sniffed the air, but detected nothing. "Smell what?"

"It smells like something's burning."

He shook his head slowly. "Your sense of smell must be more acute than mine, because I... No, you're right." There _was_ something, come to think of it. It smelled like wood smoke. Craning his neck, he saw a thin plume of smoke curling upward through the trees and into the azure sky. That meant one of two things: either a forest fire had broken out — which was nigh impossible, given all the recent rains — or, far more likely, someone had a fire going nearby.

"Do you see that?" he asked, gesturing toward the smoke.

Malone's lips quirked in a wry smile. "Aren't you forgetting something?" She pointed to her eyes. "Blind as a bat, remember?"

"Ah." He'd almost forgotten. "There's smoke rising from that direction."

She perked up at this. "Gloria's owner?" she suggested hopefully.

"Perhaps. Come on."

They quickened their pace, and soon they came upon a small dirt road that veered off to the left, which was partially obscured by the surrounding foliage. In fact, it was hidden so well that Charles could not even recall seeing it on the way to the aid station. They followed the path as it meandered lazily through the forest, until it quite suddenly ended in a clearing.

At first, Charles's mind failed to process what he was looking at. In the middle of the clearing sat a small farmhouse, built in the traditional Korean style of architecture. But it wasn't like any house he had yet seen in his time in Korea. For one thing, the majority of them were fairly new, at least outside of Seoul; war had little respect for buildings, regardless of their historical value. As a result, most of the houses he'd seen tended to look hastily thrown together, with no great amount of attention to aesthetic details.

But not this house. Not only was it beautiful, but it looked _ancient._ Its roof was made of tile, not thatched straw, and its eaves sloped gently upward, not unlike a Japanese pagoda. The windows and doors were paper screens, and there was a wide porch in front, with steps leading up to it. A handful of smaller structures stood nearby, including a barn and what appeared to be a chicken coop.

It was a pastoral paradise, in the middle of war-torn Korea. And most amazing of all, it was miraculously untouched by the shelling. Charles had to wonder how long it would continue to be spared.

Beside him, Malone was shaking her head in wonder. "Goodness," she breathed. "This is absolutely lovely. Well," she added, "what I can see of it, anyway."

"It is rather idyllic, isn't it?" Charles murmured. For some absurd reason he was disinclined to raise his voice, as if it might shatter the almost otherworldly calm of the place.

The smoke he had seen earlier was rising from a little chimney on the corner of the roof. As he stood staring up at it, the door to the house slid open, and a woman came out onto the porch. Her hair was gray, and pulled back into a bun, but she didn't seem to be very old; certainly no older than Colonel Potter. At any rate, she moved with quick, efficient grace.

It wasn't long before the woman spotted them and warily descended the steps to inspect them more closely. Then she caught sight of the bird in Malone's arms, and came running to meet them, clapping her hands in excitement and chattering in mingled Korean and English.

"_An-yŏng-ha-se-yo!_ You find my chicken!" She was positively beaming. "Welcome! _Kam-sa-ham-ni-da!_ Thank you, Joes!"

Malone chuckled and leaned in close. "And you doubted me," she said under her breath.

"Not for an _instant_," Charles replied with a smile.

The woman approached and took the chicken from Malone's arms, kissing it repeatedly on the top of its head. "You're very welcome, madam," said Charles, as he tried his best not to think about psittacosis. "Am I to understand that you speak English?"

She nodded rapidly, looking rather like a bird herself. "English! Yes! Husband teach me. Always, he want to go to America. But he stay, to take care of grandfather's farm. Husband dead, so I take care of farm now."

Malone took all this in with wide eyes. "You look after this farm all by yourself?" she asked incredulously.

The woman gave a careless shrug. "I not mind. It keep me young." She suddenly grinned, revealing unexpectedly beautiful teeth. "I am Nam-Suk Lim."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lim," Charles said with a gracious bow. "My name is Charles Emerson Winchester, and this is Fenella Malone."

Mrs. Lim was shaking her head. "Whew! So long! I never remember all that! I call you Joe and Lady Joe, okay?"

Malone laughed, evidently delighted by her new moniker. "Er, yes, of course," Charles replied distractedly. "Mrs. Lim, we are in a bit of a predicament. We're from the Army hospital just outside of Uijeongbu, you see, and—"

"Oh, Uijeongbu! Yes!" she exclaimed. "You are doctors?"

Charles exchanged a hopeful glance with Malone. "You know Uijeongbu, then?"

"Yes, yes," the woman said, with blithe unconcern. "It not far. I have ox cart. I take you."

"You will?" blurted Malone. "Oh, that's very kind of you, Mrs. Lim!"

"But cannot go now," she added. "Many thing to do first. Many thing to do on farm."

"We can help you," Malone suggested instantly, causing Charles to whirl on her in disbelief. "The work will get done much more quickly that way. Just tell us what to do."

Mrs. Lim deliberated on this for a moment. "Okay," she agreed at last. "You go get eggs, bring them to house. After work done, we eat. Then I take you to Uijeongbu."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lim! _Kam-sa-ham-ni-da!_" Charles watched, still somewhat at a loss as to what just happened, as Mrs. Lim moved off in the direction of the chicken coop, carrying the hen under one arm like a football. Then he turned to Malone, who was in the process of taking off her muddied field jacket. "Roll up them sleeves, Hoss," she said to him in an appalling approximation of a Southern accent, "there's chores need a-doin'."

"Absolutely not," he said decisively.

Her mouth dropped open as she stared up at him. "Really?" she said dryly. "You're seriously going to pull that upper-class garbage at a time like this?"

Charles tried not to take offense at her comment, as well as the open disdain in her tone. "I am doing nothing of the sort," he replied with dignity. "Had you allowed me to clarify, I would have told you that _you _are the one who will not be performing any manual labor."

She blinked, nonplussed. "Beg pardon?"

He shifted the raincoats to one arm, and with the other he steered her over to the farmhouse. "You, my dear Malone," he continued, setting the coats and the medic bag on the ground and gently but firmly easing her down to sit on the front steps of the porch, "are going to sit down right here, and rest that sprained wrist of yours. _I_ shall assist Mrs. Lim with the chores."

Malone shook her head, as he could have predicted she would. "Don't be silly, Charles," she protested. "I'm fine. I'm perfectly capable of—"

He cut her off with a look. "This is my final word on the subject." He knelt in front of her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "_Please,_ Malone," he said earnestly. "You have already done more than enough. Allow me to do this. For you."

As she returned his fervent gaze, her freckled cheeks grew slightly pink. "I..." She nodded weakly. "All right."

Charles smiled. After a moment's hesitation, he laid his hand on her frizzy mop of curls. "Rest now," he murmured, leaning in and kissing her forehead.

Then he rose to his feet and headed off toward the enclosure where the chickens were kept. He didn't have to look back to know that Malone's face was as red as a beet.

For once, though, he didn't regret his actions.

* * *

"You sure you don't want me to take over for a while?" B.J. asked over the roar of the jeep engine.

Klinger shook his head silently.

"Ooookay. Just let me know if you get tired of driving."

He wished B.J. would stop asking already. It wasn't that the doctor was a bad driving companion; he didn't try to give him directions or tell him he was driving too fast, or not fast enough. It was simply that Klinger knew these roads better than he knew downtown Toledo, and he didn't trust anyone else to navigate them successfully.

Not to mention that he'd heard a few stories about B.J.'s driving abilities. Hawkeye would probably never let the Californian forget about the time he'd flipped their jeep and gotten them both hopelessly lost. The man may have been a dynamite surgeon, but Klinger wasn't about to let a nut like that behind the wheel. Not while he was still alive to say something about it.

As the sun continued to climb toward its zenith, the corporal sighed as his frustration mounted along with it. They'd been searching all morning, and they still hadn't found a trace of Nellie and Winchester. They had talked to everyone in the little village that stood on the way to the aid station — everyone who understood English, anyway — and not a soul had seen them, which meant that they hadn't come that far yet. From that, Klinger could only conclude that either they had gotten lost, and were somewhere else entirely, or they were still up ahead somewhere. He really, really hoped it would turn out to be the latter scenario.

Because he didn't even want to consider the third option.

His eyes were getting tired and itchy from scanning the landscape for any sign of their missing friends. But he was disinclined to rub them, because that would require pulling the jeep over, and then B.J. would almost certainly offer to drive for the hundredth time. And Hell would freeze over before he allowed that to happen. He wasn't crazy.

Besides, he didn't want to stop, for any reason. His first priority was finding Nellie and Winchester. Then, and _only_ then, would he allow himself to rest.

"Uhh... Klinger?"

He turned to see B.J. watching him with a rather concerned expression on his tanned face. "I don't want to be a passenger seat driver, but you might want to loosen your grip on the wheel, before your knuckles pop right out of your skin."

The clerk looked down at his hands and found that his knuckles were indeed turning white. "Oh. Yeah." He unclenched them with an effort. "I guess I'm kind of on edge right now. But I'm fine," he added hastily. "You don't need to drive."

B.J. chuckled. "I'm crushed by your lack of confidence in me," he said dryly. Klinger offered a tired smile in apology, and he shrugged it off good-naturedly. "Ah, don't worry about it. At least you're more subtle about it than Hawkeye. To this day he still calls me 'El Destructo' and dives for cover every time I get behind the wheel."

Klinger gave no response; he realized he had tuned out at some point, and he had no idea what his friend had said. He tried to think of a general response, and decided on a weak laugh.

"Hey." He felt B.J.'s hand give his shoulder a squeeze. "We'll find them. Don't worry."

He sighed. "I'm trying not to. It's working out real great so far."

They rounded a corner, and suddenly Klinger was forced to slam on the brakes, causing them both to jerk forward violently in their seats. Directly in front of them, a massive, gaping crater stood in the middle of the dirt road, a result of the latest round of shellfire. It stretched out across the road, which was flanked by a steep ravine on one side and dense forest on the other, effectively cutting off their route and making any further progress by jeep impossible.

B.J. threw up his hands. "Now what?"

Wordlessly, Klinger shut off the engine and climbed out, staring out at the road ahead. On the far side of the crater, he could have sworn he'd seen something — some sort of object glinting in the sun. As he circumnavigated around the edge of the yawning hole, he was barely even aware of B.J. clambering out of the jeep and following after him.

At last he found what had caught his eye. Slowly, feeling as if he were in a dream, he bent down and retrieved the object from the drying mud. It was a pair of black-framed cat-eye glasses.

As he stood staring at it, B.J. tapped him on the arm. He looked up to see the taller man pointing down the ravine, his face grim. Klinger followed the line of his finger, and suddenly felt as if the ground had been yanked out from under his feet.

Another jeep was lying in a twisted heap at the bottom of the ravine, its front end smashed against the trunk of a tree.

Before he fully knew what he was doing, Klinger shoved the spectacles in his shirt pocket and began running headlong down the steep slope, his boots sliding on the mud and loose pebbles. Once or twice he nearly fell, but he didn't slacken his pace until he reached the bottom.

The jeep was empty. Looking down, he saw a number of footprints visible in the mud, partially filled with rainwater. There clearly belonged to two sets of feet — one small, and one much larger. Klinger realized he'd been holding his breath, and he slowly let it out in relief.

"They're all right," he told B.J. as the man finally caught up to him. He pointed at the tracks in the mud. "See? Their footprints lead away, back up the hill. That means they both survived the crash."

"Looks that way," B.J. agreed. He went over to the driver's side of the vehicle and peered inside. "They must have taken the med kit and all of their supplies with them, too. The jeep's been pretty well cleaned out." He paused. "Uh-oh."

"What?" Klinger asked in alarm.

"Blood on the steering wheel. And here on the dash, too."

He practically shoved B.J. aside to see for himself. "Oh, God," he blurted, feeling sick. There was a lot of it. On an objective level, he knew that he came into contact with blood on an almost daily basis, but it was somehow much worse when it belonged to someone he knew.

"Look here," B.J. was saying. "There was nobody sitting in the passenger seat. If they had been—"

"That tree branch would've gone straight through them," Klinger finished, his nausea increasing. "Who do you think was driving?"

The blond surgeon furrowed his brow in thought for a moment. "It must have been Charles," he said at last. "You found Nellie's glasses up at the road. If I'm right, that means she wasn't in the jeep when it crashed."

"Wait a minute." Klinger shook his head as he processed this information. "Let me get this straight. If you _are_ right... then they're out here somewhere, on foot, and on top of all that, Major Winchester is injured and Nellie can't see a thing."

B.J. was silent for a moment. "Yeah, that's basically the long and short of it," he said quietly.

Klinger closed his eyes.

_Perfect,_ he thought. _Just perfect._

* * *

There was a part of Nellie that had felt guilty at first for letting Charles do all the work, while she sat on the front porch of Nam-Suk Lim's little farmhouse, basking shamelessly in the warm afternoon sun. However, there was another, much stronger part of her that could not have cared less. She was bone-tired, her wrist hurt like hell, and after what she had endured over the past twenty-four hours — not to mention the weeks preceding them — she deserved a break, at the very least.

There had been no contest over which part she'd decided to listen to.

Besides, there was no denying that she'd gotten a kick out of the idea of Charles Emerson Winchester the Third pulling farm duty. And not only that, but _volunteering_ for it, no less. Just the thought of it still caused a goofy grin to spread over her face. She had been absolutely positive that he would balk at being forced to do manual labor, which he'd always regarded as beneath him. Instead, he'd completely blown her away by insisting that he do all the work while she rested. No doubt his desire to make amends for his recent behavior was a fairly large factor in his actions. In any event, it would have been quite a sight to behold, if only she'd been able to _see_ it.

He was certainly a mystery, she had to admit. She wondered if she would ever figure him out. Whenever she started to think that she'd finally got his number, he would do something else to catch her entirely by surprise. The man had more facets than the Hope Diamond, and more layers than a _matryoshka_ doll baked inside a wedding cake.

In all honesty, it was one of the things she adored about him.

Now, as they sat sipping tea together on the edge of the porch, after each being treated to a bowl of Mrs. Lim's spicy tofu and vegetable soup, Nellie glanced over at him and felt her stomach give a funny little flip. She had been fighting a growing attraction toward him for a long time now, but this was different. Suddenly she was hyper-aware of him: the china-blue of his eyes, the straight, aristocratic line of his nose, the faint stubble on his jaw. The way he swirled the tea around in his cup like it was cognac before raising it to his lips. He held her utterly mesmerized.

But that wasn't all. Something had changed between them; she wasn't sure how to define it, but something had definitely changed. It was as if the line of friendship that stood between them had somehow become blurred. When he touched her, it seemed to last just a second longer than necessary. When he took her hand, he wasn't inclined to let it go. When he held her gaze... there was a warm intensity in his eyes that made her feel terrified and elated at the same time.

She still hadn't forgotten that not even two days ago, he had been as cold as an iceberg toward her. And his refusal to explain the cause of his behavior was beyond maddening. But then again, that was Charles. If she had learned anything about him, it was that he was an expert at driving her crazy.

Coincidentally, he was driving her crazy right now. But that may have had more to do with the glimpse of chest hair showing above the unbuttoned collar of his shirt.

Mother of mercy, what was wrong with her?

As Mrs. Lim went inside to make more tea, Charles suddenly gave a low chuckle. Nellie looked up from the dregs of her teacup and regarded him with a bemused smile. "What is it?" she asked.

His gaze landed on her briefly, before returning to the landscape in front of them. "What do you suppose it would take," he said musingly, "to persuade Mrs. Lim to let us take Gloria back with us to the 4077th?"

Nellie laughed. "What in heaven's name are you talking about?"

"For shame, Malone," he chided, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I would have thought that the implications would have been clear to you at once. Just think of it: fresh omelets every morning, while the rest of the camp continues to dine on _ersatz_ eggs. It could be our little secret."

"Right," she replied, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. "And how long do you think we could keep a secret like that successfully?"

Charles appeared to deliberate on this. "Knowing Pierce and Hunnicutt's predilection for sticking their noses where they don't belong, I'd say... oh, thirty to forty-five seconds."

She shook her head with another laugh. "I have a feeling we'd have a hard time getting Mrs. Lim to part with that chicken. When she came running up to take it from me, I felt like I was watching the ending of _Lassie Come Home_." Charles chuckled. "Come to think of it, though, it would be kind of nice to have a little farm at the 4077th."

"And you would be willing to take on such a monumental task?" he asked dryly, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

She gave a careless shrug. "Why not? We already have a petting zoo. What's a handful of chickens? Maybe a goat or two?"

The corner of his lips quirked upward. "I can only imagine how fetching you would look, chasing after livestock and modeling a pair of denim overalls and a floppy straw hat," he remarked in amusement.

At this Nellie felt her cheeks grow warm. "You really shouldn't tease me. That's Hawkeye's job."

"On the contrary," he replied, his voice lowering half an octave, "I am entirely in earnest."

Oh, she hated when he talked in that deep, warm, rich tone. It gave her feelings she couldn't even begin to deal with.

She cleared her throat, trying desperately to ignore that light, fluttery sensation in her stomach. "Speaking of the 4077th," she said as calmly as she could, "I wonder if they've sent anyone out to look for us yet."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Charles answered, placing his teacup down beside him and resting his forearms on his thighs. "They probably left at first light, to take advantage of this unexpected stretch of good weather."

"Do you..." She bit her lip nervously. "Do you think they told Danny anything?"

Charles looked over at her, and his expression grew sober. "Very likely, yes," he said quietly. She exhaled loudly in vexation. "He does have a right to know, Malone. If he was missing, wouldn't you want to be told the truth?"

Nellie was silent. "Yes," she finally admitted.

He reached over and patted her hand. She swallowed hard. And then, slowly, she turned her palm upward and closed her fingers around his. He didn't pull it away.

After a moment she heard him sigh. "I suppose your brother knows of our... temporary estrangement?" he asked in a low voice.

Nellie colored in embarrassment. "Er," she said awkwardly. "I may have vented to him about it in one or two... dozen letters." She lowered her gaze to their joined hands. "I'm sorry. I was angry."

"Oh, Malone, my..." He broke off abruptly and squeezed her hand. "You've no reason to apologize. However, I fear your brother will be most displeased with me when he learns I've done such an appalling job of fulfilling my promise."

She frowned in confusion. "Promise? What are you talking about?"

Charles gave an uncomfortable chuckle. "When he was visiting the 4077th, he requested that I... well, look after you, for lack of a better term."

"That..." Nellie was at a loss for words. "That little... booger!" Charles laughed softly under his breath. "It's not funny, Charles. He had no right to ask that of you."

"Try not to punish him, Malone. He was only concerned for you. And at the time, I was only too happy to oblige him." He shook his head, suddenly serious. "I told him I would take care of you. Instead, I did my very best to make you despise me, and then I managed to get us both injured and stranded in the middle of the wilderness." His voice was tight with self-recrimination. "I seem to have failed spectacularly in all respects."

"Oh, Charles," she said softly. He tried to withdraw his hand, but she only held on tighter. "You know that's not true at all. You saved my life, remember? I think that's worth a sprained wrist." She smiled at him fondly. "And I'm sure my brother will agree, after I sing your praises for forty pages in my next letter."

His thumb delicately traced the veins on the inside of her wrist, causing her breath to catch in her throat. "I don't deserve you," he murmured.

Gathering her nerve, she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it lightly. "Hush," she said simply.

Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her, and she dropped Charles's hand hastily as Mrs. Lim came back out onto the porch, carrying a fresh pot of tea. "_Mian-ham-ni-da!_ Sorry for wait. Cups, cups!" They obediently held out their teacups to be refilled as she continued to chatter away, seemingly oblivious to their brightly glowing faces. "Tea very healthy. Many herbs. You drink, Joe. Will help pain in head."

"Yes, ma'am," said Charles deferentially, sounding amusingly like a child at grammar school.

The gray-haired woman went inside to replace the teapot, then came back out again, holding something in her hands. She surprised Nellie by holding it out to her. "For Lady Joe," she told her, gesturing insistently for her to take it.

Frowning in puzzlement, Nellie opened her hand, and her eyes widened as a pale green object was dropped into her palm. It was a disc jade pendant on a length of leather cord. In the middle of the pendant was the rather ornate carving of a rabbit.

"In Korea," Mrs. Lim was saying as she stared down at the necklace in amazement, "there is old legend. Long time ago, a god come to earth and disguise himself as old man. He find three animal: fox, monkey, and rabbit. He beg them for food. Fox bring him fish, and monkey give him fruit. But rabbit offer himself for food. God is so grateful, he repay the selfless act by bringing rabbit back to heaven, to live on the moon. Koreans call him _dal-tokki_, the moon rabbit. You can still see him, when moon is full."

She pointed to the carving of the rabbit on the pendant. "In Korea, rabbit is good animal," she said. "Gentle, clever, generous." Her finger raised to point at Nellie. "Joe tell me how you wrap up his head, take good care of him. He tell me _you_ are gentle, clever, generous."

Nellie had to swallow a sudden lump in her throat. "He did?" The woman nodded firmly. "Mrs. Lim, this is very kind of you, but I can't accept this."

Mrs. Lim waved a hand dismissively. "Take, take. I too old and wrinkled for jewelry. No daughters to take it, only sons. All three taken to fight in war." She took the necklace and hung it around Nellie's neck, leaving no room for argument. "Lady Joe will take good care of _dal-tokki_."

She nodded, blinking back tears. "I will," she said tightly. "Thank you, Mrs. Lim."

The old woman patted her on the head. "I go now, to get oxen ready to pull cart. Will not be gone long. You stay, Joe," she told Charles, who had started to rise to his feet. "You are hard worker, but hands much too soft."

Nellie couldn't help laughing at the expression on his face at hearing this. As Mrs. Lim descended the steps of the porch and hurried off in the direction of the barn, she looked down at the pendant around her neck, still not quite believing what had just happened.

Charles, who had been silent during this exchange, suddenly cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "That was certainly unexpected, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was," she agreed quietly. "How very sweet of her."

He set his teacup aside and moved closer. "May I see it?"

"Of course."

She started to take it off, but he held out a hand to stop her. Taking the pendant between his thumb and forefinger, he leaned toward her slightly to examine it. "How intricate," he murmured. "I don't know if you noticed, Malone, but the jade is the precise shade of green as your eyes."

On further reflection, she didn't hate it when he talked in that deep, rich voice. She _loved_ it.

She cleared her throat. "No, I, I didn't notice," she said, somewhat breathlessly.

His eyes raised to hers, and her heart began to pound in her chest. But then he frowned, very slightly. "Malone, you... You have an eyelash on your cheek."

"I do?" She didn't know why it mattered if she did; she already looked like a Dickensian street urchin. She wiped at her face anyway. "Did I get it?"

Charles shook his head. "Allow me." He reached up and brushed at her cheek lightly with his thumb.

Nellie felt her skin grow warm at his touch. He held her gaze steadily as he continued to stroke the side of her face. She was reminded sharply of his actions the previous night in the abandoned hut. But this time, his gaze was clear. He was in full command of his faculties. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Slowly, she felt herself lean into him, and as he moved closer still, she suddenly realized with absolute clarity that everything — _everything_ had been leading up to this: their meeting in the mess tent all those months ago, their steadily growing friendship, even their argument in the Officers' Club that seemed so silly now. Every word, every wistful glance, every shared secret, every lingering touch. All of it had been a precursor to this moment.

Her eyelids fluttered involuntarily as she felt his breath on her skin. "Is it gone?" she murmured faintly, her lips close to his.

He nodded once. And then, in a motion that seemed slow and somehow fast at the same time, he lowered his face until his mouth met hers.

At first the kiss was soft, light, almost hesitant. Hardly daring to move, Nellie simply sat perfectly still, her eyes tightly shut. But then slowly, as if in an unspoken agreement, they both adjusted the angle of their faces to allow the kiss to deepen. Charles put his hands on either side of her head, cradling it gently. Nellie's own hands, which had remained fisted in her lap, loosened of their own accord and placed themselves tentatively on his chest.

They broke apart for a brief moment. "Charles," she exhaled shakily against his lips.

"Yes, Malone," he whispered, his fingers tangled in her hair.

"There was no eyelash, was there?"

He shook his head. "No."

She smiled crookedly.

And then they came together again in a series of soft, quick kisses that gradually became longer, deeper ones. Her hands moved up to his shoulders, clinging to him as best as she could with her injured wrist. In response, he drew her smoothly against him, and her breath caught in her throat as she felt his hands slide over her midriff, tracing the bottom of her ribcage with the pads of his thumbs.

Nellie's mind went hazy as she lost herself in the embrace, in the myriad of sensations, in the oddly intoxicating contrast of Charles's rough stubble and the softness of his thin but pliant lips, of his large, strong hands encircling her small waist.

She and Klinger had shared kisses before, when they were dating, but they had always been perfectly chaste. She had never experienced _anything_ like this. Her muscles were weak and trembling, her breath was short, and somewhere in her mind, she was aware that this was hardly the time or place for this. But she couldn't bring herself to care. All she knew was Charles — his warmth, his touch, his scent, his taste, his tall, solid, reassuring _maleness._

She shivered as he took her bottom lip between his teeth and began to nibble gently on it. A soft moan escaped her, and the sound seemed to galvanize him like an electric shock. One of his hands slid down her leg, kneading the muscles of her thigh, while he hungrily explored her mouth with his own. With a sigh of pure bliss, she pressed herself close against his chest, her fingers digging into his shoulder blades.

And then, quite suddenly, he pulled away, his eyes wide with horror. "Good Lord, what am I thinking?" he gasped, rising quickly to his feet. "I apologize, Malone. I should not have done that."

For a moment, Nellie's head was too muddled with lingering pleasure to process what he was saying. "What on earth are you apologizing for?" she asked, genuinely confused. "It's not exactly as if I minded, Charles."

He nearly tripped down the steps of the porch in his effort to distance himself from her. "No, no, you misunderstand," he said, shaking his head adamantly. "I _really_... should not have done that."

He looked so miserable, so distraught. All at once, Nellie found herself becoming incredibly annoyed. Damn him, he was doing it again. Every single time they became closer, he retreated without fail, and she was fed up with it. She wasn't about to let him get away with it this time.

"Charles," she said, standing and descending the porch to grasp his hand firmly in hers. "Charles, stop this. There is no reason for you — for _either_ of us — to feel any regret over this. I, for one, am glad this has happened. To tell you the truth..." She swallowed before continuing. "I've been smitten with you for a long time."

At this, all the breath seemed to leave his body for several moments. "You have?" he whispered.

Nellie nodded shyly. "I have. So smitten, in fact, that I'm surprised you didn't notice." Slowly, as if afraid he'd bolt like a startled horse, she took a step closer to him, followed by another. "Charles," she said softly. "Please. Enough. No more games. Whatever's bothering you, just tell me. We can work through it, together."

Hesitantly, he brought his other hand up to envelop hers. But when he spoke, his voice was low and hopeless. "If only that were possible," he murmured.

She wanted to shake him by the shoulders. "Charles—"

"_Nellie!_"

She jumped at the sudden voice. "What the...?"

"Yo, Charles! Nellie!"

They both turned, startled, to see Klinger and B.J. hurrying up the narrow road leading to the farmhouse, calling their names.

"Oh, my God," she blurted. "You're here! You found us!"

_What horrible timing you have,_ she couldn't help thinking.

* * *

A/N: So apparently I can't not end on cliffhangers. I have a problem. But hey, at least they finally kissed. And it only took them twenty chapters! So that's something. Goodness gracious, this chapter was long. If you have time, though, I'd really appreciate some feedback. My birthday is coming up, and a review would make a lovely gift. :)

-Octopus


	21. Meanwhile, Back at the War

A/N: Hey, errbody. Sorry this chapter took a while. It was absolute torture to write. You'll soon understand why. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, especially **Bottle Imp**, for reviewing every chapter. And thanks again to **Jen Lennon** for beta reading! On to twenty-one!

Disclaimer: If I owned _M*A*S*H_, you would know it. Because I'd be bragging about it to everyone.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twenty-One: Meanwhile, Back at the War

_Oh, crumbs_ was Nellie's first thought when she saw Klinger break into a mad sprint down the dirt pathway to the farmhouse. Preparing for the inevitable, she braced herself as the clerk ran headlong into her and lifted her bodily off the ground, hugging her fiercely.

"Oh, Nellie, Nellie, thank God you're okay, I've been so worried about you!" he babbled in his relief, oblivious to the fact that he was currently squeezing the living daylights out of her. "We found your glasses, and then we found your jeep, and there was blood all over the dash, and we weren't sure what to think! Are you two all right?"

Despite her tumultuous state of mind, she couldn't help but smile. "Yes, Max, we're all right," she replied, hugging him back tightly. "For the most part, anyway. Major Winchester suffered a mild concussion, and I managed to hurt my blasted wrist again, but we're intact, more or less."

"Oh, jeez!" He quickly set her on her feet again, looking apologetic. "Sorry about that, Nell. I didn't know."

"It's fine," she assured him. "Did I hear you correctly? Did you actually find my glasses?"

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out her spectacles. They were covered in mud, but seemed to be in one piece. How they had survived her fall, as well as Klinger's viselike embrace, was completely beyond her. As she took them gratefully and began cleaning them off on her shirt, B.J. finally caught up to them, clearly having opted for a less insane pace.

"Glad to see you guys are all right," he said, with a cheesy smile to match his mustache. "We had a hell of a time tracking you down."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Klinger agreed. "After we found your jeep in that ravine, we tried following your footprints. But the storm last night turned all the roads into one big, muddy mess. And B.J. here isn't exactly an Eagle Scout, if you get my drift."

B.J. gave a shrug. "Hey, don't blame me. Seeing every Sherlock Holmes movie ever made doesn't automatically make you a tracking expert, either." He nudged Charles, who had not spoken a word since their arrival. "Come on, Chas baby, what's the big idea? No 'Afternoon, gentlemen'? No expressions of eternal gratitude?"

"We appreciate all the effort you went through to find us," Nellie said emphatically, with a pointed glance at Charles as she replaced the glasses on her face. "Don't we?"

For a moment Charles didn't even seem to hear her. But at last he gave a vague sort of nod. "Yes, of course," he said in an oddly detached tone. "Naturally."

B.J. frowned. "Charles, you all right?" he asked in concern.

Abruptly he appeared to realize they were staring at him expectantly and quickly collected himself. "Quite all right, Hunnicutt," he replied briskly, shoving his fists in the pockets of his trousers. "Just a little residual discomfort from my injury. Nothing at all to be concerned about. Malone, perhaps one of us should inform Mrs. Lim that we shall no longer be requiring the use of her ox-cart. Be a dear and find her, would you?"

There was something about his manner that Nellie found incredibly insulting. He was speaking very rapidly and markedly avoiding her gaze.

"Am I being dismissed?" she asked in a low voice.

His eyes met hers, and he faltered for a brief moment. Then he cleared his throat. "Not at all," he answered with an air of forced nonchalance. "I would be more than happy to tell her, if you would prefer to remain here with Klinger and Hunnicutt." He gave a stiff half-bow. "If you'll excuse me."

As he turned on his heel and departed in the direction of the barn, Klinger shook his head with a low whistle. "Boy," he remarked, "that must've been some whack to the head."

"Yeah," Nellie said quietly to herself. "That must be it."

_What were you expecting, Malone?_ she thought bitterly, watching the tall surgeon's retreat. _Some grand declaration of undying love? He's done nothing but push you away so far. Why did you think this time would be any different?_

"Hey." Klinger's voice broke into her dismal thoughts. She turned back to find him pointing to the disc of jade hanging around her neck. "That's a nice necklace. Where'd you get it?"

With an effort, she tried to give him her undivided attention. After all, it wasn't the clerk's fault that Charles was being so... so Charles. "Mrs. Lim gave it to me," she told him, with a vague gesture toward the barn. "She looks after this farm all by herself."

"No kidding." He gave the necklace a closer inspection, then nodded in approval. "It's pretty. Matches your eyes, you know."

Before she had a chance to respond, B.J. spoke up again. "So what happened to you two, anyway? And how did you end up here? I've driven this road plenty of times, and I didn't even know this place existed."

"Yeah, tell us everything," Klinger urged.

Nellie suppressed a sigh; she wasn't exactly in the mood for a recap of the past twenty-four hours. "There's... really not all that much to tell," she said with a weary shrug of her shoulders. "We ran off the road on our way back from the aid station, and I lost my glasses. We tried to walk back to the village we passed on the way there, but between the storm, Charles's head, and my lousy excuse for eyes, we didn't make it very far. In the end, we spent the night in an abandoned hut."

At hearing this last detail, the toothy smile faded from Klinger's face. "Huh," he said evenly. "How about that."

She knew full well what he was probably thinking, and was determined not to blush. "Anyway," she resumed, "this morning we found a chicken wandering around, and we figured it must belong to someone living nearby. We stumbled upon this farm, and Mrs. Lim thanked us for finding her chicken by offering to take us back to the 4077th."

B.J. was shaking his head. "There's one thing that doesn't add up. From what we were able to tell, you weren't even in the jeep when it crashed. How did that happen?"

"Oh." Nellie swallowed. "That was Charles. He... Right before the jeep went off the road, he pushed me out."

The blond surgeon's expression became sober. "Damn," he said at length. "It's a good thing he did. He probably saved your life."

"I know he did," she murmured, her throat burning.

There was an awkward silence that lasted for several seconds. Klinger, unsurprisingly, was the one to break it. "Well," he said, "remind me to thank him when he gets back."

"No!" The men raised their eyebrows at Nellie's sudden exclamation. "I mean," she added hastily, "I doubt he would want anyone bringing it up. He was pretty shaken by the whole thing. We both were."

Klinger nodded in sympathy. "I guess I can understand that." He put his hand on her arm. "I'm just so glad you're okay. You really had me scared, kid."

The sincere affection in his dark eyes was almost more than she could bear. "Come now, Max," she said lightly, forcing a smile for his sake. "You're forgetting how resilient the Malones can be. Once, when my brother was ten, he jumped off the roof of our house and broke his arm. He was playing softball with the neighbor kids the very next day."

The grin returned to his face, as she'd hoped it would. "What the heck was your brother doing jumping off your roof, anyway?" he asked.

"He'd been reading about Da Vinci, and decided to recreate his flying machine, using bedsheets and yard debris."

Klinger laughed. "Next time I see him, I'll have to tell him all about my hang-glider."

"Speaking of Danny," she continued hesitantly, "you didn't... tell him I was missing, did you?"

He shook his head, and she exhaled in relief. "But don't think I didn't try. I called the medical dispensary where he's stationed, but he was out on some errand. Believe me, if he'd been there, I would've told him. He deserved to know."

She sighed. "You're right. I just... hate the idea of him worrying about me."

At that moment Nellie heard Charles's voice drifting across the farmyard toward them. "No, no, no further provisions are necessary, Mrs. Lim," he was saying to the little Korean woman walking beside him and carrying a small bundle in her hands. "We've already impinged upon your hospitality enough as it is."

She shook her head in exasperation as she struggled to match his long strides. "Too many big words, Joe," she said, with no attempt whatsoever at tact or subtlety. "Who you try to impress?" She thrust the parcel toward him. "You take rice dumplings. Much better than Army food."

"She has a point, Chuck," said B.J. with a smile. He bowed politely toward the woman as they approached the rest of the group. "Hello, Mrs. Lim. I'm B.J. Hunnicutt, and this is Max Klinger."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," the clerk chimed in.

"Nice to meet you, Joes," Mrs. Lim replied easily, forcing Nellie to smother a smile of amusement. Without ceremony, she dumped the bundle into B.J.'s arms. "Here, _you_ take dumplings. You are too skinny. Next storm might blow you away."

He laughed. "_Kam-sa-ham-ni-da_... I think."

"Thanks for taking such good care of our friends, Mrs. Lim," said Klinger. "You're one swell lady."

Nellie nudged him. "Max," she told him under her breath, "I doubt she knows what 'swell' means."

Mrs. Lim grinned and poked the swarthy corporal on his prominent nose. "You also are pretty nifty, Joe," she replied.

"Or maybe she does," said B.J. with a chuckle.

Charles cleared his throat pointedly, jerking his chin in the direction of the road. "Shall we?" he prompted.

Fighting the urge to glare at him, Nellie turned to their hostess and offered a respectful bow. "Thank you for everything, Mrs. Lim. Especially for this," she added, gesturing to her necklace.

The woman patted her head, like she was a little child. "You're welcome," she answered warmly. "You are good girl, _tokki_."

After saying their goodbyes, they retrieved their things and started off down the path through the trees toward the main road. As they walked, Klinger leaned in and asked, "What does _tokki_ mean?"

"I... I think it means 'rabbit'," Nellie replied.

He grinned impishly. "Sounds to me like you've got a new nickname." She swatted him on the arm. "Ouch! Okay, so maybe I spoke too soon. What's the Korean word for 'stick in the mud'?"

She waved her bandaged fist under his nose. "Don't push me, Corporal," she said jokingly. "It's very dangerous to tease a superior officer."

Klinger pretended to look indignant. "How do you like that," he huffed. "You risk life and limb to come to a girl's rescue, and how does she repay you? With threats of demotion." He shook his head. "'This man's Army', my butt. It's the chicks who are really running the show."

Nellie tried to hold back a laugh, without success. The truth was, she was grateful for Klinger's company. His sweet, unaffected manner and easy conversation were a welcome antidote to the tense energy that currently existed between her and Charles. All the same, she couldn't help wondering what would have happened if Klinger and B.J. hadn't shown up and interrupted them when they had. Would Charles still be acting aloof and evasive right now?

Would she ever know what he was really thinking?

She tried to force the entire matter from her mind as B.J. helped her up into the passenger seat of the jeep that stood waiting at the side of the road. But as Klinger got in behind the wheel and turned the engine over, she couldn't prevent her traitorous brain from replaying one moment, over and over in a continuous loop: _that kiss._

She couldn't begin to compare it to anything else, because nothing she had ever experienced _could_ compare to it. It had been slow and languid, yet heated and urgent; gentle, yet incredibly seductive all at once. It was almost impossible to fathom that the man who had been capable of such tenderness and passion was the same man who was currently sitting behind her in the back seat, radiating coldness like some kind of human glacier. It made no sense. Nothing in her life made any _sense._

Dimly, she was aware that Klinger was still chattering away beside her as they bounced and jostled along the unpaved road. "Oh, I almost forgot," he was saying. "Igor and the cook made you some soup. They thought you guys might be hungry. It's in a thermos under the seat if you want it."

"They made us soup?" she said with some surprise. "That was sweet. Mrs. Lim already fed us, though. In fact, you can have those rice dumplings."

"Really? Thanks! Toss one up here, B.J."

"You want me to throw a dumpling at you, while all our lives are in your hands? And they say _I'm_ a bad driver."

"Fine, then pass them up to Nellie." She took the parcel from the captain and fished a dumpling out for Klinger, which he took gratefully. "Boy, that Mrs. Lim sure is a character," he continued, his mouth full. "And these dumplings are tops! Maybe we should hire her as our camp cook."

Nellie's smile was somewhat forced. "I doubt we could persuade her to leave her farm to cook for a bunch of sweaty servicemen."

"Hey, no problem! We'll just send Pernelli over to take her place. It's not like anyone would miss him."

B.J. chuckled from the back seat. "I'm amazed that she succeeded in getting Charles to sample the local cuisine," he said. "Usually the only kind of food he eats comes in crates marked 'Highly perishable and obscenely expensive'."

Charles said nothing, eliciting a sharp whistle from B.J. "Yo! Paging Dr. Winchester! You're wanted in reality!"

When the Bostonian spoke, he sounded like a man in a dream. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

In her peripheral vision, Nellie saw B.J. throw up his hands in frustration. "I give up. My mother-in-law's cat is more responsive than you are."

Nellie didn't realize she was scowling through the windshield until she felt Klinger's hand on her elbow. "Hey, Nell, you all right?"

All at once, she arrived at a decision. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. With her most convincing smile, she replied, "Absolutely, Max. Couldn't be better."

So Charles wasn't feeling conversational, was he? Well, that was just too bad. They were going to have a little talk when they got back to camp.

Whether he liked it or not.

* * *

Margaret Houlihan would probably never admit it to anyone, but she liked Klinger an awful lot. Sure, the man was a conniving little weasel, but at least he used his powers for good instead of evil. His first-rate scrounging abilities ensured that the 4077th always had what they needed, and sometimes even a little bit extra. That made him all right in her book... even if his methods were sometimes a little suspect.

Take, for example, his most recent acquisition. Just two weeks ago at breakfast, Margaret had been commenting on what a rotten effect the wet season was having on morale. She had mentioned in passing that it would be nice if Special Services would send them some funny films to combat their rainy day blues. The next day, the Lebanese corporal had driven to Seoul, claiming to have "clerkly duties", and returned with a double feature of classic comedies: _Bringing Up Baby_ and _My Man Godfrey_. He had traded a package of homemade _baklava_ sent to him by his own mother to get them. Even Radar O'Reilly would have been impressed.

It had taken him a while to adjust to his new position, but there was no question that he had made the job his own and proven himself an invaluable asset to the 4077th. It was difficult, therefore, to say why Margaret always gave Klinger such a hard time. Perhaps it was because she was regular Army down to her boots, and his open disdain for all things military got under her skin. Granted, war was no day at the beach, and the reasons for their involvement in this police action were becoming increasingly unclear, but they were still performing a duty to their country. Klinger's efforts in the past to get out of said duty had been decidedly unpatriotic. Not to mention his fashion sense had been appalling.

She knew it was probably time she eased up on him. After all, he had stopped pretending to be crazy; or at least, crazier than he already was. And this latest rescue mission he had mounted to find Charles and Malone was further proof of the quality of his character. That was why Margaret had vowed, as soon as they returned, to start being nicer to old Buzzard-Beak.

At the moment, however, that vow was becoming harder and harder to remember.

_Why isn't that little dope ever around when I need him?_ she thought irritably as she rifled through the endless piles of papers on the clerk's desk.

She had just received a letter from her father, informing her that he would be spending a weekend in Tokyo in two weeks, and would like her to visit him while he was there. To say that she had been thrilled would have been the understatement of a lifetime. Her father had never been the most open or affectionate of men, and this invitation was an enormous breakthrough for him. She was already planning a list of things they could do together, things they could talk about. But there was one small problem: she couldn't find the damned weekend passes anywhere.

Ironically, there seemed to be an abundance of everything else in Klinger's desk. There were transfer request forms, morning reports, requisitions for supplies, as well as countless random objects, including paperclips, rubber bands, a single red pump with a broken heel, and a half-eaten salami. While interesting, to say the least, none of these items were particularly helpful.

With a growl of frustration, Margaret tossed aside a yellowed paperback novel and marched into Potter's office, hoping he would know where the weekend passes were. But the colonel was not behind his desk, or anywhere else in his office, for that matter.

A sudden thought occurred to her. Of course; this was the first sunny day they'd had in weeks. Potter was probably taking Sophie for a ride. There was a chance he hadn't left yet. She still might be able to catch him.

With a renewed burst of hope, she turned and darted out of the colonel's office, through the disorganized squalor of Klinger's domain, and out into the compound. The abrupt light change temporarily blinded her, and she stood squinting in the bright afternoon sun.

While she waited for her eyes to adjust, she became aware of the rumble of a jeep engine in the distance. Her heart leaped into her throat at the sound. If Klinger and Hunnicutt were back this soon, it could only mean that they had found Charles and Malone. A grin of relief spread across her face. Not only were her missing colleagues safe, but she could finally get her weekend pass.

As she stood waiting for the jeep to arrive, the door to the Swamp banged open loudly, and Pierce came running out in his tacky blue Hawaiian shirt and cowboy hat.

"Do my ears deceive me?" he asked eagerly as he came to stand beside her. "Has our intrepid duo returned?"

"Looks that way," she told him.

He lifted up a long hand to shield his eyes from the sun. As he peered at the approaching vehicle, however, his eyebrows drew together in a frown. "No, wait a minute," he said, disappointment evident in his voice. "False alarm. There are only two people in that jeep, and neither of them are Beej or Klinger. There's not a single goofy mustache or super-sized schnozz between them."

"I wonder who it could be," Margaret wondered aloud. "We're not expecting anyone, are we?"

"Not that I know of," Pierce replied. "Then again, nobody tells me anything. I still don't even know where babies come from."

"From cereal boxes, of course," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He laughed. "Uh-oh," she added, as she spotted the white letters 'M.P.' on the soldiers' armbands and helmets. "Military police."

"Oh, lovely," Pierce said dryly. "What the hell do they want?"

The jeep crunched to a halt, and the soldiers climbed out. Warily, Margaret came forward to meet them, Pierce following closely at her heels.

As they approached, the driver gave a sharp salute. "Afternoon, ma'am. I'm Lieutenant Rogers." He gestured to the man beside him. "This is Sergeant Horowitz."

"At ease, men," she told them. "I'm Major Margaret Houlihan. The man cowering behind me is Captain Pierce."

"Hiya," the surgeon said with a little wave.

"What brings you here?" asked Margaret.

The soldiers exchanged a glance with one another. "We'd prefer to discuss that with your commanding officer, ma'am," said Rogers.

"I hope you two aren't on a tight schedule," Pierce replied. "The colonel just hoofed it with his horse about half an hour ago. He won't be back until 1600 hours. And that's if he hasn't taken the scenic route."

"I'm the head nurse here at the 4077th, Lieutenant," said Margaret. "I also happen to be the highest ranking officer at the moment. And this is our chief surgeon. Whatever you have to tell the colonel, you might as well tell us. We're going to find out eventually, anyway."

Rogers looked uncertain. "Well, Major... The fact is, it's not the colonel we're here to see. Army regs require us to report to the C.O. first, but since he's not here..." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim notebook. "We need to speak to a Lieutenant Fen... Fennel... Lieutenant Malone," he said at last.

"Malone?" Margaret looked at Pierce, who made a wince. "That's going to be a problem, Lieutenant," she said slowly. "Malone and one of our surgeons were sent to Battalion Aid yesterday, and they haven't returned yet. We have a search party currently looking for them."

The lieutenant's face fell. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said, and strangely enough, he sounded as if he meant it. "That's, uh... That's really a shame."

Pierce shook his head impatiently. "Look, what is this about?" he demanded. "Why do you need to talk to Nellie? And what is it you're trying so hard _not_ to say?"

Rogers sighed. "This isn't easy, Captain. It's about Lieutenant Malone's brother, Private Daniel Robert Malone."

"Oh, God," Margaret croaked. "What about him?"

"Two days ago, he was part of a medical convoy that was carrying supplies to the troops up at the front. The convoy was ambushed by Reds, and a conflict ensued. Several soldiers in the convoy are unaccounted for, including Private Malone. It's unclear at this point whether he was taken captive or not, but he's been officially declared missing in action."

A thick, oily wave of nausea swept over Margaret as the words sank in. It was no wonder that Klinger hadn't been able to get hold of the young private at the 28th Medical Dispensary in Seoul after Malone and Charles hadn't returned from the aid station. The boy's convoy had already been attacked. Not only was Malone still missing, but now her brother, as well.

She looked up at Pierce. As he met her gaze, his eyes were hollow, and he seemed to have aged at least ten years in as many seconds. "Jesus," he said in a low voice. "That poor kid."

"Which one?" she asked quietly. "Malone, or her brother?"

"Take your pick."

Lieutenant Rogers cleared his throat. "Normally, we're supposed to deliver this sort of news to the missing person's next of kin," he said awkwardly. "But in this case, it seems that the missing person's next of kin is missing, too. I'll admit, I'm not exactly sure how to proceed here."

"You're telling us," said Pierce.

"If..." The sergeant hesitated. "If your people find Lieutenant Malone, will you make sure she gets the news? It would probably be better if she heard it from you, anyway."

Margaret managed a nod, still slightly in shock. "Yes, of course," she replied.

After thanking them both, Rogers and Horowitz gave their farewell salutes and climbed back into their jeep. As Margaret watched them drive away, Pierce shook his head.

"An M.P. with a conscience," he remarked, almost to himself. "And here I thought I'd seen everything."

"I don't know how I'm going to tell Malone," she whispered hoarsely. "I don't even know if she's alive."

Pierce wrapped his long arm around her shoulders. "She's alive, Margaret," he told her firmly. "Charles wouldn't let anything happen to her, no matter how big a jackass he's been. And when they get back... we'll tell her together."

She nodded, and leaned into him, pressing her face into his stupid Hawaiian shirt. "I hate this place," she said.

He squeezed her tightly. "Me, too."

* * *

Something had happened between Nellie and Winchester. Both of them were acting like nothing had happened, which definitely meant that _something_ had happened. Klinger was absolutely certain of it.

He wasn't quite as certain what he thought about it.

On the one hand, he knew that he and Nellie were never meant to be, and he had accepted that, though not without some difficulty. More than anything else, he just wanted her to be happy. Whether or not Charles Winchester was the man to make her happy, however, was still a matter of debate. To date, his track record was less than impressive; a better word for it might be 'appalling'. Unless the major did something to redeem himself, and soon, Klinger would be forced to intervene. He didn't know how. All he knew was that he was tired of watching Nellie make herself miserable over the man.

At the moment, though, Winchester wasn't doing a whole lot to change Klinger's mind. In fact, he wasn't doing a whole lot of _anything_. He had barely spoken a word since he and B.J. had tracked their two missing friends to that little farm. What little he _had_ said so far had been limited to dull, monosyllabic responses. Klinger had had enough experience dealing with victims of head injury to know that it had nothing to do with his concussion. The man was acting more like an extra in a zombie film.

Suppressing a sigh of exasperation, the clerk glanced over at Nellie, who was sitting beside him in the passenger seat. She was holding her injured wrist to keep it from being jostled around by the rough ride of the jeep. There was a pensive frown on her freckled face, and her whole body seemed tense, like a coiled spring. He found himself wishing he knew what was going on in that head of hers. He felt helpless, as if he were watching some massive drama unfold before him, in which he played no part.

She noticed him looking at her, and gave him a smile which didn't reach her eyes. "How much farther is it to the 4077th?" she asked.

He forced himself to return her smile. "Not far now," he answered. "We should be coming up on Uijeongbu in just a few minutes."

"Thank goodness," she breathed in relief. "I desperately need a hot shower. And an incinerator for these clothes."

"Yeah, I noticed you tried to do a little do-it-yourself tailoring," he observed, gesturing at the torn hem of her tee shirt. "The next time you need some altering done, you'd better let me do it instead. That's some seriously shoddy workmanship right there, Nell."

He succeeded in coaxing another smile from her, and this time it was genuine. "Shut up," she said jokingly.

"Yes, ma'am."

Before long, they passed through Uijeongbu, where most of its inhabitants were taking advantage of the good weather by working on their houses or drying their laundry. As they drove slowly through the familiar village, Nellie's rigid little frame seemed to relax almost imperceptibly. By the time the mobile hospital came into view, she was almost back to looking like her usual calm self.

As the jeep pulled to a halt in the compound, a swarm of nurses and enlisted soldiers came out of the woodwork to meet them. Nellie appeared slightly overwhelmed by the attention as she climbed out of the vehicle, while Winchester seemed merely annoyed. Above the buzz of conversation, Klinger heard a high-pitched keening that set his teeth on edge. It didn't take long to figure out where it was coming from.

"Nellie, Nellie, Nellie!" Lieutenant Kellye was squealing excitedly as she came running across the compound and tackled the redhead in a bear hug. "Thank goodness you're all right!"

"Well, I _was_," she returned with a somewhat pained smile. "Hi, Kellye. And ouch."

Kellye released her, only to grab Winchester around the neck and pull him down for a wet kiss on the cheek. The major turned scarlet, causing the crowd of onlookers to burst into laughter.

"Hey, what's the big idea?" said Klinger as he hopped out of the jeep and removed his combat helmet. "Captain Hunnicutt and I are the ones who found them. Don't we get a kiss?"

"Sure, Klinger," Private Straminsky called, gesturing over the heads of the others. "Come on over here and pucker up."

There was more laughter. "Yeah, yeah, real funny," he said dryly, waving his hand. "All right, people, gang way. Our weary travelers have battle wounds that need tending."

"Come on, Chuck," said B.J., slapping Winchester on the shoulder. "We should have that chrome dome of yours X-rayed, just to be on the safe side."

Winchester jerked away from his touch. "I'm fine," he replied brusquely. "If it's all the same to you, I'd much rather enjoy some long-overdue solitude."

Klinger watched as the major turned on his heel and stalked away. Nellie glared at his retreating back. "Now wait just a minute, Charles—" she began indignantly.

But B.J. was already steering her in the direction of the hospital's main structure, which included O.R., Post-Op, and the lab, in addition to Potter and Klinger's offices. "Not so fast, Red," he told her. "It wouldn't hurt to take a look at that wrist of yours, either. Or at least get you a better bandage than your current one. I know green goes with your ensemble, but color coordination isn't everything."

As they approached the building, the door to Klinger's office swung open, and Colonel Potter stepped out, followed by Hawkeye and Major Houlihan. Right off the bat, Klinger could tell that something was wrong. Instead of being relieved to see Nellie safe and sound, they all looked as grim as Death.

The colonel cleared his throat quietly, and the feeling of _wrong_ness increased considerably. "Lieutenant," he said, his voice low and even. "Glad to have you back."

Nellie's eyebrows climbed upward. "Thank you, sir," she answered slowly, nonplussed. "Is everything all right?"

Potter reached out and laid a hand on the nurse's shoulder, and Klinger felt his gut tighten instinctively. "Why don't you come inside and sit down, Malone?"

At this the girl's expression grew wary and guarded. "Why?" she asked uneasily. "Is something wrong?"

Houlihan came forward, her arms crossed over her chest. "We thought it might be better to tell you in private," she said, lowering her voice as well. "Without the audience, I mean."

Nellie took a panicked step backward, nearly falling over Klinger. "Tell me what?" she demanded, as he held out a hand to steady her. "Why does everyone look so serious? What's going on?"

"Look, Red, maybe you should come inside," Hawkeye murmured.

"No. No, whatever it is, you can tell me right here." Her tone left no room for further debate. "What is it? Is it..." She faltered. "Is it Danny?"

The chief surgeon rubbed wearily at his face for what seemed like an eternity, before finally giving a dismal nod. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, it's Danny. He, uh... He was part of a supply convoy. They were attacked by North Koreans, and, and..."

"And several soldiers went missing," Houlihan finished quietly. "I'm afraid your brother was among them. He's been declared missing in action. I'm so sorry, Malone."

A ripple of dismay went through the crowd of nurses and enlisted that had gathered around to listen. Klinger was too shocked even to react. He looked over at Nellie, to find that her face had gone completely white, and strangely devoid of all expression.

And then her legs buckled beneath her.

Klinger quickly knelt down and took hold of her arm, and with B.J. taking the other, they hoisted her onto her feet. Together, they guided the stricken girl into the clerk's office, where Major Houlihan grabbed the chair behind his desk and pulled it out. Gently, they lowered her into it. She barely seemed to notice, or even to be aware of their presence. And she was shivering uncontrollably.

"It's going to be all right," he found himself telling her. He hardly even knew what he was saying, but felt compelled to comfort her, _somehow_. "We're here for you, Nell. We're all here for you."

She didn't appear to hear him. It was like she was in a waking coma.

"Margaret, get me that blanket," Hawkeye said, gesturing to the woolen bedspread on Klinger's bunk. She snatched it up and passed it to him, and he wrapped it tightly around Nellie's shoulders. Then he stooped over in front of her, until he was at eye level with her. "Hey," he said softly. "Nellie. Nellie, can you hear me?"

Still nothing. She didn't even bat an eye. "Oh, God," Klinger said miserably. "She's broken."

"She's not broken, son." He felt Colonel Potter's hand on his shoulder. "I've seen this kind of thing more times than I can count. She's got the thousand-yard stare. It's a common symptom of shell shock. Or in this case, of an acute reaction to a sudden traumatic event. Her brain just couldn't handle the stress."

"What do we do?" asked B.J. "Should we call Sidney?"

Potter nodded slowly. "It couldn't hurt. I'll see if I can track him down and persuade him to make a house call. In the meantime, the best thing you can do right now is make her feel comfortable and safe. And try to get her to drink something hot, if you can. It might help to jump-start her neurons. And most importantly, talk to her. Let her hear your voices."

"I'll go make some tea," said Houlihan, hurrying out of the room.

"And I'll try to get in touch with Sidney." Potter rested his hand briefly on Nellie's hair, before shaking his head sadly and going into his office.

Kneeling beside her chair, Klinger took her uninjured hand and held it between his. It was as cold as ice. "Come on, Nellie," he pleaded desperately. "Say something. Let me know you're in there."

"Maybe we should move her to the bed," B.J. suggested. "She might be more comfortable there."

But as he spoke, the girl's fingers tightened around Klinger's. As he watched, her eyes seemed to come back into focus. Very slowly, she blinked at him. "Max," she said, sounding dazed.

His heart gave a leap. "Hey, kid," he said gently. "How are you doing?"

She pulled her hand out of his and tried to draw the blanket closer around herself. "Cold."

He looked up at B.J., who nodded. "I'll get another blanket from Post-Op."

"Nellie?" Hawkeye crouched down alongside Klinger, peering at her closely. "Do you know where you are?"

Her forehead puckered slightly as she returned his scrutinizing gaze. "Of course," she replied. "I'm in Max's office."

"That's right. Good." He hesitated. "Do you remember what we told you about your brother?"

"I'm not likely to forget, am I?" she replied in a low voice.

Klinger exchanged a glance with the chief surgeon, who gave a minute shrug. Whatever sort of trance had come over her, she appeared to have snapped out of it. Klinger couldn't recall having seen anything like it before. But then again, there were a lot of things he had never seen before, until he had come to Korea.

By the time B.J. had returned with a second blanket, and Major Houlihan had given her a mug of steaming tea, Nellie's tremors had almost completely subsided. However, she was still alarmingly pale, and the hands that clutched the mug were bone-white. "I'm sorry," she said in a dull, hollow monotone. "I have no idea what came over me."

"Come on, cut that out," murmured Hawkeye, rubbing her arm. "There's no reason to apologize. I'd say it was a pretty understandable reaction, given the circumstances."

At that moment Potter emerged from his office, heaving a sigh. "Bad news, folks," he announced. "Sidney's with a real serious case. An attempted suicide. There's no telling when he'll be able to get away." He looked over at Nellie, and started slightly when he saw her tentatively sipping at her tea. "Oh, Lieutenant," he said with some surprise. "You're looking a mite better. How are you feeling, dear?"

She took a deep breath. "I... I'm all right now, Colonel."

"Are you sure?" Klinger asked worriedly. "Is there anything else we can get you?"

She grasped his hand in hers and squeezed it, but her fingers were still frozen. "I'm quite sure, thank you," she answered calmly. _Too_ calmly. "I appreciate your concern, but I really do think I'll be all right." She gave a slight wince. "Except for my wrist, of course."

Klinger wasn't at all convinced. She was still speaking in that same curiously flat, unmodulated tone. It reminded him of the way she had behaved right after he'd broken up with her: detached and emotionless, like a robot. Only this time it was worse. Much worse.

From the look on their faces, it was obvious that the others were not convinced, either. But before he could voice his concerns, Klinger suddenly heard a rhythmic thumping noise that never failed to send his spirits plummeting. "Oh, God, not now," he groaned.

Right on cue, the voice on the P.A. rang out: _"Attention, all personnel! Incoming wounded! Choppers in the compound, I repeat, choppers in the compound! Quit slacking and get cracking!"_

To Klinger's alarm, Nellie was already standing up and replacing the blanket on his bunk. "Whoa, just hold your horses, little lady," Potter told her. "You're not going anywhere."

"But Colonel—" she began.

"N-O," he said firmly. "Malone, you've just suffered one hell of a shock, not to mention a pretty nasty twenty-four hours. I'd be the worst C.O. in military history if I sent you into surgery at a time like this."

"The colonel's right, Malone," agreed Houlihan. "The O.R. is the last place you should be right now."

She shook her head. "With respect to you both," she said levelly, "I think that right now, I would much prefer to stay busy."

"Are you nuts?" Hawkeye asked, rather indelicately, in Klinger's opinion. "If you want to stay busy, go to the Officers' Club. Clean out shot glasses instead of cleaning out shrapnel wounds."

"Anything but surgery, Nellie," B.J. added quietly. "Be reasonable."

"Listen to them," Klinger pleaded desperately. "They're doctors. They know what's best for you."

For a moment, Nellie looked as if she were about to lose her composure. But then the redhead took another deep breath, and expelled it slowly through her nose. "I know myself better than anyone," she said in a low voice. "I _know_ that if I find myself with nothing to do, I'll allow myself to start... _thinking_ about everything. I'll become consumed with..." She broke off, swallowing hard. "I can't deal with that right now. I can't."

She looked beseechingly at Potter. "_Please_, Colonel. I have to keep myself occupied. I might as well do it in O.R., where I can be of help."

The colonel returned her gaze narrowly, before releasing an exasperated sigh. "God knows you seem awfully sure of yourself," he said at last, sounding none too pleased. "Ah, hell. I'll allow it." Klinger's heart sank in dismay. "But if I decide you've had enough, I'm pulling you out. No arguments."

She nodded. "Thank you, sir," she replied. "Hawkeye?" She held up her injured wrist. "Try to make it as tight as you can, please."

As they filed one by one out of the clerk's office to meet the helicopters, Klinger felt a heavy, sick sensation settle over him, like he'd swallowed a handful of rocks.

"This is wrong," he muttered.

He didn't even realize he had spoken aloud until he heard Major Houlihan's quiet reply as she kept pace alongside him.

"I think you're right."

* * *

"I can't see a thing. More retraction, Kellye."

"Yes, Doctor."

"Hand me that clamp, Margaret. I need to tie off this bleeder before I can do anything else."

"Right. Clamp."

"Damn it, this kid has more holes in him than a doughnut shop. Where's Klinger with those lap sponges?"

"In the immortal words of 'Dugout Doug' MacArthur, I have returned."

"Great, Doug. Send them over this way. And then send us all home, while you're at it."

Charles gritted his teeth as he tried to focus on his current task of closing the incision he'd made on his patient. The constant noise in the operating room was driving him to distraction. It would be more accurate to say that he was choosing to regard it as the cause of his distraction. The truth of the matter, however, was that his mind was in a state of utter chaos.

He should never have kissed Malone. And yet, he could not stop thinking about it. It had been pure, and perfect, and had sent his senses reeling in a way he had never before experienced. The memory of her lips against his, her smooth, cool skin under his fingertips, still caused his breath to hitch in his throat.

But it had been a complete mistake. And now that he had kissed her, he could never take it back. There would be no going back now to the way things were. Their friendship, fragile and turbulent as it had been of late, was changed forever.

But that was not even the worst of Charles's problems. If circumstances had been different, he might have blamed his indiscretion on a moment of temporary insanity. But with her usual brand of ingenuous candor and endearing lack of social finesse, Malone had spoken nine simple words that had sent his entire world into total upheaval:

_"I've been smitten with you for a long time."_

He'd had no idea. Not even the tiniest inkling. How was that _possible?_ Was she that exceptionally adept at concealing her true emotions, or was he simply that incredibly stupid? Either way, the news had come as a complete shock. Against all odds — against all _logic_ — the woman he loved actually reciprocated his feelings, at least to some degree, even in spite of the atrocious way he'd behaved recently. It was nothing less than a miracle.

And yet, even now, he was not entirely certain how he should feel about this unexpected development. Deep in his heart, he was overjoyed. But he wasn't sure if he should be. After all, what difference would it make? In the end, he and Malone could never be together; not without throwing his entire family into violent hysterics. If anything, this news would only serve to make matters worse. Knowing how she felt about him would just make it even harder to let her go.

He was absolutely powerless. He _detested_ that feeling.

To his horror, Charles realized that his hands were trembling ever so slightly. With a tremendous effort, he pushed his disquieting thoughts from his mind. It was too dangerous to dwell on them now, when a single mistake could cost a soldier his life.

At length, he wove in the final stitch and pulled the silk suture taut, waiting expectantly for his assisting nurse to snip the remaining thread. But it seemed she was having just as much difficulty focusing as he was.

"Malone," he said sharply.

She flinched noticeably at the sound of his voice, but picked up the surgical scissors with her good hand and silently snipped away the surplus silk.

He wasn't sure how Malone always ended up assisting him in surgery. Normally he wouldn't complain; they had an easy working rapport, in which she invariably seemed to anticipate all of his requests before he even made them. But that was not proving to be the case today. From the moment she had entered the operating room, she had been distant, distracted, lacking her usual alacrity. More than once, he had been forced to reprimand her for her inattention. It wasn't like her at all.

He knew, of course, that it was more than likely that she was also thinking about what had transpired between them. He understood her preoccupation only too well. But right now, he needed her to snap out of it. Lives were at stake.

With the finishing touches completed, his patient was ready to be wheeled away and replaced by the next one. As he stripped off his gloves, Private Goldman brought in another gurney, carrying a very young soldier with considerable damage to his abdomen.

"How many more wounded, Goldman?" he asked.

"Last one, Doc, and he's all yours."

There were feeble cheers all around O.R. at this news. _One more,_ thought Charles, suppressing a weary sigh. One more, and he could finish his shower, which had been interrupted in mid-shampoo by the P.A. announcement. He could change into some clothes that weren't splattered with either mud or blood, or both. And, perhaps, he could finally work up the courage to explain everything to Malone.

Her injury was making it difficult for her to put fresh gloves on his hands. He watched as her frustration mounted, her movements increasingly distressed. To his surprise, he realized she looked as if she might cry.

"Malone," he said softly, so that the others couldn't hear. "It's all right. Let someone else do that for you."

She shook her head vehemently. "I've almost got it," she whispered.

With an impressive concentration of will, she managed to get the gloves on. As she turned to get more sterile gauze pads, he made a rapid assessment of his patient. His injuries indicated that he had taken the brunt of a grenade explosion; although it looked more like he'd gone several rounds with a chainsaw. It was unconscionable, the suffering that these young men, these _children_, were forced to endure. And for what, exactly? This was not even their war. What were they all doing here?

He shook his head, waiting for Malone to return with the lap sponges. When she did, he confirmed with the anaesthetist that the patient was under, and then prepared to make his first exploratory incision.

"Scalpel," he requested, holding out his open palm.

Instead, he had to shoot out his hand as Malone nearly dropped the wickedly sharp instrument, seizing her wrist at the last second. "Careful, Malone!" he snapped.

Her gaze was fixed on the soldier on the table, her face almost as white as her mask. "I..." She swallowed weakly. "I'm sorry. It's just that... for a moment, this boy looked just like Danny."

"Well, this boy is _not_ your brother," he hissed impatiently, releasing her wrist from his grip. "And if he were, I doubt he would thank you for eviscerating him."

In his ire, he didn't notice the chorus of gasps that followed his words. Slowly, as if in a dream, Malone took a step backward from the operating table, and the scalpel slipped from her gloved fingers, narrowly missing his foot.

That was it. Charles's patience with her had reached its breaking point. "Malone! Good God, woman, you almost skewered my foot! What in the hell is the matter with you?"

"Major," murmured Father Mulcahy in a rebuking tone.

"Malone," said Potter quietly, "you're done for today. Take a break."

She looked over at the colonel briefly, then at Charles again. As she returned his furious gaze, Charles was more than a little unsettled by the glassy, haunted look in her eyes. And then he watched as she walked silently out of the room.

Charles turned away from the swinging doors to find Pierce glaring at him above his mask. "You heartless son of a bitch," he said in a low voice.

For several seconds, Charles was too shocked to form words. "How... _dare_ you speak to me that way," he finally sputtered.

"Shut it, Winchester," Potter growled. "I've got a mind to kick you from here to Panmunjom with my spurs on."

Charles felt like he was losing his mind. "What in heaven's name is going on here?" he demanded indignantly. "Has the entire camp gone mad?"

Klinger was shaking his head in disgust. "I don't _believe_ you, Major," he said bitterly. "Where do you get the nerve to stand there and pretend to be insulted, after the way you treated Nellie just now?"

He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "Am I the only person in this room who witnessed her attempt to perform an amputation on my foot? The girl was in a daze from the moment she walked in here!"

"Of _course_ she's in a daze, you idiot!" exclaimed Pierce. "Her brother's been declared missing in action!"

Charles's mouth went suddenly dry. "He... What?" he croaked.

"You mean you didn't know?" asked Margaret incredulously.

"No, I didn't know!" he nearly shouted in vexation. "No one bothered to tell me a thing! Do you think if I had known, I would have said all those—" He broke off, realizing exactly what he'd said. "Oh, dear God," he said, feeling abruptly nauseous. "That poor girl. What have I done?"

He felt Colonel Potter shove him gently to one side with his elbow. "You put your size twelves in it again, Major, that's what you did," he replied, not unkindly. "Now move over."

"Colonel?" he inquired weakly.

"I'll take over for you, this time. You just find that girl and set things right. And if I were you, Winchester," he added, "I'd get ready to do some serious groveling."

Charles swallowed. "I'm fully prepared to do so."

Doing his best to ignore the icy stares that followed him out the door, he quickly went into the changing room, removed his bloodied scrubs, and washed his hands thoroughly. As he went through the obligatory motions, a wave of shame threatened to engulf him. Once again, he had succeeded in hurting the woman he adored, and at the worst possible time in her life. He seemed to have developed an uncanny knack for it. How could he ever, as the colonel had put it, set things right? Who was to say that he wouldn't only make things worse?

Perhaps the best thing he could do was to stay away from her.

Immediately, he banished the thought from his mind as he stepped outside into the failing light. Malone was somewhere in the compound, alone and in distress. He wasn't about to leave her that way.

He checked her tent first, but it was empty. Next he tried the mess tent, and then the Officers' Club, but still no success. He even checked Father Mulcahy's tent, on the chance that Malone might have possibly sought it out as a sort of spiritual safe haven, but she was not there, either. There weren't many places she could be. So where was she?

Charles racked his brains in growing desperation. But even as he considered paying a visit to Rosie's bar, inspiration hit him. Quickly, he set off toward the stable.

There she was. As he drew closer, he could see her standing in the middle of the corral, her slender figure dwarfed by that of the colonel's horse. She was petting the animal's nose with her uninjured hand and talking to it softly.

Sudden trepidation seized Charles, and for a moment he couldn't bring himself to go any further. Shaking his head at his own cowardice, he forced himself to move forward. As he stepped through the gate and pulled it shut behind him with a click, Malone stiffened visibly, but made no other acknowledgement of his presence.

Quietly, he came to stand beside her. She had changed out of her scrubs and into some oversized fatigues, and he couldn't help thinking how small and frail she looked.

"Malone." He nearly winced as his voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Malone, I am so... so very sorry," he said softly. "I had no idea about your brother. Had I known, I would never have lost my temper with you. Can you ever forgive me?"

She simply continued to stroke the horse's nose.

He swallowed. "I... I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you. I truly didn't."

Still she said nothing.

"You see, I'm... I'm not good with people," he confessed, his face burning with shame. "I never have been. It seems I'm only good at offending them. Especially the ones I care for." His voice had lowered to a whisper. "And I do care for you, Malone. A great deal."

"Why did you kiss me?" she asked suddenly.

The frank question caught Charles off guard. For a moment he couldn't speak, and when he did so, he hardly even knew what he was saying. "I... I don't know," he stammered nervously. "It simply... happened. We were both under an immense amount of pressure at the time, and..."

He trailed off as he saw her shake her head. "I knew you were going to say that," she said in a low monotone. "Somehow, I just knew." She gave a small, defeated shrug. "Why bother telling the truth, when sidestepping around it is so much more convenient?"

Charles felt his throat constrict. "Malone... There's so much I wish I could tell you."

She didn't seem to hear him. In fact, she hadn't even looked at him once since he had found her. Instead, she meditatively traced the white blaze on Sophie's nose. "It's funny," she said quietly. Her face was pale and inscrutable. "We never seem to get anywhere, do we, Charles?"

He stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," she murmured.

He did.

"You know," she continued, her voice strangely calm, "when you stopped talking to me, it hurt. It hurt more than you'll probably ever know. But I let it go, even though you never even gave me a decent explanation, because I was just so happy." Slowly, she shook her head. "But nothing has really changed. You're still pushing me away. You always have. And you probably always will. And I'm just supposed to take it."

Abruptly, she turned toward him. "Why?" she asked bluntly. "Why should I take it, Charles? Give me one reason. One _good_ one."

The joyless, lifeless look in her eyes alone was enough to send a stab of guilt through his heart like a dagger. "I... I know I've been... difficult," he managed to say around the lump in his throat, earning a snort from Malone. "Believe me, I wish I could explain everything, but... I fear it would only hurt you even more."

"Oh, I doubt you could possibly hurt me any more than you already have," she said bitterly.

He reached out and took her hand. "Malone—"

She snatched her hand away, causing the horse to knicker in surprise. "Damn it, Charles," she said unsteadily. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "What do you want from me? Don't you realize that I am perilously close to suffering a nervous breakdown right now? What is _wrong_ with you?" She pushed her hand through her disheveled hair in frustration. "Is this... something you aristocrats do for fun? Toy with the common folk for your own amusement?"

Charles tried to speak, but he found he couldn't even get the words out. "That's all I am to you, aren't I?" Malone asked in a near-whisper. "We've never been equals. I'm just your toy." She sounded so very tired. "Well, I can tell you right now, it's humiliating. And it's demeaning. And if you have even an ounce of respect for me, you will stop prevaricating and tell me what is _really_ going on."

It would have been so easy to say it.

_I love you._

_I _love_ you._

"I can't," he said brokenly.

Malone closed her eyes. After a long, excruciating moment, she shook her head. "You know, Charles," she said numbly, "I have put up with a great deal from you. I've put up with your arrogance, your coldness... your cruelty." When she opened her eyes again, they were devoid of all life. "But I just can't keep letting you jerk me around like this. I will not allow you, or anyone, to toy with my emotions. _Especially_ at a time like this."

She took a step closer to him, looking him square in the eye. "You know how I feel about you," she said matter-of-factly. "If you don't feel the same way, just say so. It's that simple."

Charles stared back at her, wondering if perhaps he wasn't the worst person alive.

"I... I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't."

She nodded, very slowly. "There now," she said hollowly. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

With that, she turned and walked out of the corral. Her figure swam in front of Charles as he felt his vision begin to blur. As he wiped at his suddenly damp cheeks, he felt the horse nudge his shoulder with her large head.

"What's the matter?" he asked her softly, reaching up to stroke her velvety muzzle. "Haven't you ever seen a grown man cry?"

* * *

A/N: Yes, yes. I know perfectly well that this chapter will enrage most of you. Trust me, it's all part of the plan. Please do review, if you can find it in your heart to do so. Meanwhile, I'll be cowering under my desk.

-Octopus


	22. Always Room for One More Black Cloud

A/N: Thanks once again to **Jen Lennon** for her mad beta reading skillz. :D I'm sorry it's been a while since I last updated. I'm in the process of moving, and I have an enormous list of things to do. But anyway. You're not interested in that.

So over two hundred reviews! That is just... tremendous. I don't mind telling you, I got a little emotional over that. You guys are all so wonderful. Especially those of you who have been reviewing since I first started this story three (!) years ago. You've been incredibly patient and long-suffering with me, and I want you to know, your faithfulness has not gone unappreciated. Anyway, that's enough sentiment. Here's chapter twenty-two. With special guest, Sidney Freedman! Yay!

Disclaimer: _M*A*S*H_ is not mine; I'm only borrowing the characters. Although I've been borrowing them for so long now, I probably won't want to give them back when I'm done.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twenty-Two: Always Room for One More Black Cloud

It had been a busy day for Major Sidney Freedman, and it wasn't even half over. Before noon had come and gone, he had already seen three cases of battle fatigue, two patients suffering from severe depression, and one man who felt so much shame over all the misery and death in which he had taken part that he'd begun referring to himself in the third person. The resulting headache from _that_ conversation still hadn't gone away.

It was certainly an interesting experience, working in Korea. In the relatively short time he had been serving as divisional psychiatrist at the 121st Evacuation Hospital in Seoul, Sidney had become acquainted with a far wider array of mental disorders and maladies than any he had ever seen in all his years practicing in the States. On the one hand, all the experience he'd gained was undeniably helpful for his future career. But if he was being honest with himself, he wasn't so sure he wouldn't prefer a little mundanity over this particular kind of on-the-job training.

He couldn't remember when he'd last had some time off for R-and-R. Then again, even if he did have some time to himself, he couldn't imagine what he'd do with it. He wasn't a "paint the town red" kind of guy, by any means; in fact, he had always been a bit of an introvert. He'd never been overly fond of large crowds or wild parties. If he had the choice, he would rather spend a quiet evening with a handful of close friends, or even alone with a good book. He often wondered what that said about him — a so-called expert on human behavior who liked being alone.

He supposed that was why he enjoyed visiting the 4077th MASH as much as he did. After an especially stressful case, it was always a treat to catch up with his friends at the mobile hospital over a drink or a sedate game of poker. It wasn't that the people there had any fewer problems than anyone else; on the contrary, they seemed to have the monopoly on crazy. But for whatever reason, their special brand of crazy worked for them, and he was loath to interfere with it. After all, why tamper with perfection?

Speaking of the 4077th, he really needed to get back to Sherman Potter as soon as possible. The colonel had called him the previous day about a crisis involving one of his nurses, but Sidney had been fully occupied with one of his patients, and nothing short of an air raid or a herd of buffalo stampeding through the corridors of the EVAC hospital could have succeeded in tearing him away. Even now, he couldn't spare the time to drive up to Uijeongbu in person, but he could at least return Potter's call and see if there had been any change.

The nurse in question was a Lieutenant Fenella Malone, more commonly known as Nellie. The name had seemed familiar to Sidney, but it had taken him a while to attach a face to it. Then he remembered: the pixie-like little redhead who wore glasses and was almost always seen in the company of Major Winchester. Sidney had spoken to her briefly on his last visit to the 4077th, and had been surprised by the interest she had expressed in his chosen field of medicine. She had seemed like a pretty sharp cookie.

And now her younger brother was missing in action, and as a result, she had apparently gone into a dissociative stupor. As far as coping mechanisms went, it wasn't all that uncommon. However, it was by no means a healthy one.

Shaking his head, Sidney pushed himself up from his desk, rubbing at the sore muscles in his shoulders. As he made his way toward the door, he nearly collided into his secretary, who had chosen that precise moment to enter his tiny office.

"Sorry about that, Joanna," he told her. "Listen, could you dial the operator and patch me through to the 4077th MASH, please?"

The young lieutenant frowned. "Right now, sir?" she asked uncertainly.

Sidney observed her manner with some puzzlement. "Yes, now would be a good time," he said slowly. "Unless there's something I should know." A sudden suspicion formed in his mind. "Wait, let me guess. The phones are out again." He shook his head with a wry smile. "So which is it this time? Enemy sabotage or local incompetence?"

"No, it's not that, Doctor," she replied quickly. "It's just that there's someone from the 4077th waiting to see you right now. That's what I came in here to tell you."

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Well, what do you know, speak of the devil. Who is it?"

"A corporal named Maxwell Klinger."

"Klinger?" Sidney's face brightened. "Send him in, Joanna."

"Yes, sir."

She left his office, and presently his visitor stepped inside. "Klinger," he greeted warmly, shaking the corporal by the hand. "I hate to break it to you, soldier, but you're out of uniform. If you're still bucking for that Section Eight, you've really got to try harder. You're not even wearing your pearls."

Klinger waved his hand dismissively. "Come on, Doc," he said with a wan smile. "You know I gave that up a long time ago."

"Ah, you never had me fooled, anyway. Have a seat, Klinger. You look like you could use it."

As the 4077th's company clerk lowered himself into the chair in front of his desk, Sidney took the opportunity to examine him a little more closely. He really did look beat; his fatigues were rumpled, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Even his dog tags looked dog tired. He looked as if he hadn't slept for days. Perhaps that was the reason why the man had driven all the way to Seoul to see him.

Trying to conceal his curiosity over this impromptu visit, Sidney sat on the edge of his desk opposite the clerk and folded his arms over his chest. "So, Klinger, what brings you to my neck of the war?" he asked casually. "Aside from the spring festival, of course."

Klinger looked down at his hands, which were folded in his lap. He seemed unusually uncomfortable. "Well, Major, it's like this. I'm, uh... I'm here about a friend of mine."

"Oh?" Sidney smothered a smile of amusement; it was the oldest dodge in the book. "And this 'friend' of yours. Does he have a name?"

He nodded. "He's a she, actually. Her name's Nellie."

The psychiatrist's mirth faded as the pieces suddenly fit together. "I see," he replied. "That wouldn't happen to be Nellie Malone, would it? The same Nellie Malone your colonel called me about yesterday?"

Klinger nodded again, and it occurred to Sidney that he had never seen the Lebanese corporal so somber, so melancholy, so... _un_-Klinger.

"Well, that's quite a coincidence," he said quietly. "I was just about to give Sherm a call myself, to see if her condition had improved at all. But now that you're here, you can save me the trouble. Tell me, how's she doing? Is she aware of her surroundings yet?"

"Oh, yeah, she's doing a lot better now," Klinger told him quickly. "Whatever it was that came over her, it only lasted a few minutes." His eyes were far away, as if he were re-living the memory. "I'll tell you, Doc, I've never seen anything like it. It was like she was one of those... those marionette puppets, and someone just reached out and cut all her strings." He shuddered almost imperceptibly. "I'm not ashamed to admit, it scared the hell out of me."

Sidney nodded in commiseration. Having had experience in treating patients who had gone into dissociative stupors before, he knew what Klinger meant. In fact, the man's marionette analogy was startlingly apt. "It's never easy, watching someone go through something like that," he said. "Especially when it's someone close to us."

"Tell me about it," Klinger muttered, almost to himself. "I felt... helpless."

"But you say she's doing all right now?"

The clerk shot him a meaningful look. "I said she was doing better, Major," he said in a low voice. "I didn't say she was doing all right."

"Ah." Sidney stroked his mustache in thought. "Okay," he said at length. "Why don't you try describing her mental state to me? Be as detailed as you can."

"Yeah, well..." Klinger cleared his throat. "That's just it. See, at first I thought she was okay. But then I realized she wasn't acting like herself. In fact, she wasn't really acting like _anybody._"

Sidney frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, boy. I don't even know how to put this." He paused. "Let's just say, she looks like Nellie, and she talks like Nellie, but that's about it. There's no _life_ in her. It's like she's been replaced with a robot."

"So she's suppressing her emotions."

"That's exactly what she's doing, Major. She's turned off her emotions. I've seen her do it once before, but it wasn't anything like this. It seems to be as easy for her as flipping a light switch would be to you or me."

"Hmmm." The psychiatrist considered this for a moment. It wasn't at all unusual for a person to react to stress in such a manner. It was one of the mind's ways of protecting itself, in the same manner that pain receptors shut off to manage intense pain. Prolonged emotional suppression, however, could be detrimental to one's mental and even physical health.

"You say she's done this before," he said. "What triggered it the first time?"

At this Klinger's ears reddened in sudden embarrassment. "Well, you see," he began hesitantly, "Nellie and I dated for, well... almost a month."

"Really?" exclaimed Sidney, unable to contain his surprise. "I didn't know that."

The clerk gave an awkward shrug. "I knew we were all wrong for each other, but I was just so crazy about her, I didn't want to admit it. But after a while, I had to face facts. We had no real future together, and I was just being selfish. So I broke it off with her."

"And that's when she 'flipped off the light switch'?"

Klinger nodded gloomily. "I'd assumed she'd taken it really well, because she seemed fine. But I found out later that when she was alone, she'd cried her eyes out over the whole thing. I felt like such a jerk."

Sidney was silent. There had to be some deeper reason for the young woman's involuntary defense mechanism. "Tell me more about Nellie," he said. "What do you know about her past? About her childhood?"

"Well, I know both of her parents are dead. Her mom died while giving birth to her brother, when she was just a kid. I guess you could say she kind of raised Danny herself after that. Then when she was a teenager, her dad was diagnosed with some fatal illness. I think it was M.S., but I'm not sure." Sidney nodded, encouraging him to continue. "Anyway, until he died, she was taking care of both him _and_ her brother. She told me once that she didn't even cry at their dad's funeral, because she didn't want to upset Danny."

"Oy," Sidney said simply. Now it was all beginning to make sense. "So from a very young age, she's taken on this role of a care-giver. She took care of her brother, and later her father. It's probably why she felt compelled to become a nurse. It's all she's ever known."

Klinger shook his head in confusion. "But what does that have to do with what's happening to her now?"

"Think about it, Klinger. Nellie's always had to be the strong one. She had people _depending_ on her to be the strong one. She couldn't allow herself to appear vulnerable, because she didn't want to let anyone down. And so she's come to regard the idea of surrendering to her emotions as a sign of weakness."

There was a short silence while Klinger absorbed this. Then he let out a slow breath. "Jeez," he said in a low voice. "I'd never thought of it that way. No wonder she's so messed up. That poor kid."

Sidney regarded the clerk with renewed interest. "You really care a lot about this girl, don't you?" he asked quietly.

Klinger nodded. "Yeah," he murmured. "I really do. She's... She's like family."

The psychiatrist smiled slightly. "You know, Klinger, when I first met you, all you cared about was getting your butt back to Toledo. You've come a long way from that guy in the frilly pink number, with a chip on his shoulder and silk flowers in his hair."

At this Klinger let out a chuckle, which seemed to have escaped against his will. "Boy, what was I thinking? Pink has never been my color." Sidney joined in his laughter. "So tell me, Doc. Now that I know Nellie isn't... you know..."

"Meshuggeneh?" Sidney offered, his tone gently teasing.

"Yeah, that." The corporal gave a wry smile, which soon faded. "What do I do about it? How can I help her?"

Sidney glanced regretfully at his wristwatch. He wished he could spend more time on this, but he had another appointment in ten minutes. And he still hadn't eaten lunch yet.

"The best thing you can do for her right now is try to get her to talk about her feelings," he said. "Even if it's just a little bit at a time. She needs to realize how dangerous emotional suppression can be. You can never really _make_ your emotions go away; they just continue to accumulate, until something finally triggers a release. Right now, Nellie is a water heater with a broken relief valve. If something doesn't change soon, she's just going to keep building pressure, until she explodes."

From the look on his face, this was obviously not what Klinger wanted to hear. "I'll tell you what," Sidney told him. "I can't get away now, but give me a call tomorrow. If Nellie's condition hasn't changed at all by then, I'll drive up and see her myself. Deal?"

Klinger nodded, relieved. "Thanks, Major. I really appreciate it."

"Please, it's just Sidney. I've seen you in your civvies, remember?"

The clerk chuckled again. "Right," he said, rising from his chair. "Thanks, Sidney."

"Oh, and Klinger?" He paused at the door, and Sidney held out his hand expectantly. "That'll be fifty bucks."

Klinger's eyes widened in surprise, until he saw the grin on the psychiatrist's face. "You'll get it at our next poker game," he replied jokingly.

Sidney laughed softly to himself as he watched the corporal leave his office. And then, with a sigh, he picked up his datebook and confirmed the time of his next appointment. Right on cue, his stomach gave an angry rumble of protest.

"Oh, shut up," he told it. "You're not missing much, anyway."

* * *

Hawkeye yawned and stretched the muscles in his back as he stepped out of the post-operative ward and into the compound. The sun was just beginning to rise, but there were dark clouds looming ominously on the horizon: a sign that the temporary reprieve from the wet season would be ending very shortly. The good things in life never lasted, he mused idly.

It was nearly time for the mess tent to begin serving breakfast, and for once, Hawkeye was so famished that he didn't even care what was on the menu. He had just finished the night shift of a lifetime in Post-Op, and not a moment too soon. The recovery ward was filled with the soldiers who had come in two days ago, and apparently there was no love lost among them. Their sergeant had been killed in action, and half of them thought it was due to the negligence of the other half, and vice versa. The resulting tension in the room had been thick enough to slice through with a scalpel. It had taken every ounce of control for Hawkeye to keep from high-tailing it out the door at top speed the second B.J. had arrived to relieve him.

As he staggered into the mess tent and took his place in line, his mind drifted back to the latest letter from his father. His birthday was coming up, and he'd said that the only gift he wanted was to see his son's face sitting across from him at the dinner table. Hawkeye had been unable to hold back his tears at reading that simple request — simple, and yet completely out of his hands. How long was this stupid war going to last?

Shuffling through the mess line, he felt his appetite rapidly beginning to ebb. He inspected each item with a mistrusting eye, before settling on something that might have almost been corned beef hash, if it wasn't for the fact that it smelled vaguely of burning tires. After sneering briefly at his tray in distaste, he looked around for an empty seat. As he did so, his gaze lighted on a sight that would have been amusing, if it hadn't been so pathetic: that of the 4077th's company clerk fast asleep in his powdered eggs.

Shaking his head, Hawkeye slid onto the bench across from Klinger, trying to make as little noise as possible. It probably wouldn't have made much of a difference either way; in fact, he seriously doubted whether anything could have woken him up, short of a ten-piece marching band. The guy was out cold.

With a shrug, Hawkeye held his nose with one hand and proceeded to shovel food into his mouth with the other. Granted, the Army would never be awarded any Michelin stars for their grub, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and he was positively ravenous. He had finished choking down his main course and was about to move on to his slice of fossilized toast when Klinger suddenly woke with a snort, quite literally with egg on his face.

"Yes, sir, Colonel, I'll polish your horse right away," he blurted, his head shooting up from the table. He looked around for a moment, blinking in confusion, before he realized where he was. "Oh," he muttered in a deadpan tone. "Sorry, Captain."

Hawkeye waved his hand dismissively. "At ease, Corporal Van Winkle."

While Klinger wiped his face clean with his napkin, Hawkeye took the opportunity to examine the clerk in a more clinical fashion. What he saw was frankly alarming. His normally olive skin was noticeably paler than usual, and he had dark circles under his eyes, along with some periorbital puffiness. His eyes themselves were bloodshot, and his gaze glassy and unfocused. Not to mention that his hair was a mess, his shirt was wrinkled, and there was a small nick on his jaw where he had cut himself shaving. All of these were clear physical signs of sleep deprivation. Besides the fact that he had been using his breakfast as a pillow.

As the corporal picked up his fork with slow, clumsy fingers, Hawkeye took a bite of his toast. "I'm going to try and put this as delicately as humanly possible, Klinger," he said. "You look like a train wreck."

"Boy, that's a relief," Klinger replied dully, prodding disinterestedly at his food. "I was worried I might offend someone."

"When was the last time you got a decent night's sleep?" he asked.

Klinger's dark eyebrows drew together in contemplation. "Uhh... Hang on, I'll get it in a minute..."

"If you have to think about it, it's been too long," Hawkeye told him.

"Okay, so it's been a while," he admitted. With a sigh of sheer exhaustion, he rubbed at his eyes. "I guess the last time I got a good eight hours' worth was before Nellie and Winchester went up to Battalion Aid. When they didn't come back, I stayed up all night watching for them." Hawkeye nodded; he didn't think anyone in camp slept soundly that night. "And now with Nellie's brother missing, I've spent every night sitting by the phone, waiting for any news about him." He swallowed. "Part of me wants them to call, but... there's another part that's just dreading it, you know? I don't know what I'm going to do if they find him, and he's..." He trailed off, leaving his fears unsaid. They hardly needed to be said.

"I know," Hawkeye said quietly. "How's Red holding up?"

Klinger didn't answer right away. He seemed to be attempting to stare through the table. "Good," he said at length. "Yeah, she's... she's good." He raised his eyes to meet Hawkeye's. "A little _too_ good."

Hawkeye nodded knowingly as he munched on his toast. He had noticed the same thing.

"I went down to Seoul to see Dr. Freedman yesterday."

"Really?" Hawkeye set down his toast in surprise. So that was where the clerk had gone the day before. "And what did Sidney have to say?"

Klinger gave a huge yawn, his jaw popping audibly. "He said that Nellie's suppressing her emotions, because she doesn't want to seem weak. She's kind of made a habit of it. He said we should try to get her to talk about her feelings, or else she'll just keep holding everything in, until it all comes out at once."

"Our very own little volcano, just waiting to erupt." To the best of his recollection, Hawkeye had never actually seen Malone lose her cool, even when he had made the idiotic mistake of hitting on her. Unless, of course, one counted the New Year's Eve party. Even then, it had taken three scotches to loosen her tongue.

Somehow, he didn't think getting the girl plastered was the answer.

"Well, hey, I'm all for helping her," he said. "But how are we going to get her to talk about what she's going through, if she clearly doesn't even want to _think_ about it?"

Klinger shook his head tiredly. "I don't know. Believe me, I've tried, but... I just can't get through. I guess I'm the wrong person for the job."

"Are you kidding?" Hawkeye blurted incredulously. "Who knows her better than you do? Nobody around here, I can tell you that much. Except maybe Charles. And I sure as hell don't see _him_ stepping up to the plate."

At the mention of Charles's name, Klinger scowled. "Don't even get me started on that lousy crumb," he muttered, giving his breakfast a few murderous stabs with his fork. "Considering everything he's done, he's lucky I happen to have a policy against clobbering superior officers."

"Normally, I'd say the same, but I'm pretty sure you were here when I K.O.'d Frank."

"Oh, yeah. I wish I could've seen that."

"I wish you'd been there. It was beautiful." He looked up in time to see the doors of the mess tent swing open. "Heads up."

Klinger twisted around in his seat to watch as Malone stepped inside, accompanied by Father Mulcahy. As they both went through the mess line, Hawkeye thought about what Sidney had told Klinger: to try to get Malone to talk about her feelings. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn't really sure where to start. His area of expertise was putting people's bodies back together, not picking their brains apart.

As Mulcahy and Malone joined them at their table, the priest greeted them with a smile. "Good morning, all," he said pleasantly.

"Morning, Father," Klinger replied, managing a tired smile in return. "Good morning, Nellie."

"Good morning, Max," she said in an even tone. "Hawkeye."

"Nellie."

Hawkeye watched as the nurse calmly unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. Then she picked up her coffee mug and raised it to her lips. It was like watching an automaton. He swore he could almost hear the gears whirring as she moved.

He exchanged a glance with Klinger, who spoke up. "So how are you doing, Nell?" he asked quietly.

"I'm all right. Thank you." She didn't even blink.

There was an awkward pause, during which Hawkeye groped about desperately for something to say. It was a new experience for him, to say the least. "Uhh... So, so have you been sleeping okay?" he finally managed to stammer. Quite lamely, in his opinion.

Malone simply nodded. "Well enough, I suppose."

He looked at Klinger again for some kind of assistance, but the clerk only gave a helpless shrug. "That's... That's good," he said slowly. "Glad to hear it." He paused for a moment before continuing. "I've got to say, I envy you, Red. I don't think I'd be able to... to sleep, if I were... you know." He cleared his throat. "I mean, if I were..."

The girl raised a single auburn eyebrow. "If you were me?" she offered.

Hawkeye returned her strange, disconcertingly lifeless gaze. "Yeah," he said at last. She didn't seem fazed in the least by his admission. Suppressing a sigh, he leaned in across the table. "Look," he said in a low voice. "It's great that you're handling everything so well. But even if you weren't... that would be okay, too. It's okay to be worried, to be scared. It's... It's _normal._" He hesitated. "To be honest, it's more normal than... than _not_ being scared."

At this Malone gave a small, almost ironic smile. "Everyone is different, Hawkeye," she replied. "Just because I'm not wailing and beating my breast in lamentation doesn't mean I'm not worried." She took another sip of her coffee. "I just... see little point in constantly dwelling on it. It accomplishes nothing."

He couldn't help shaking his head. "So in other words, you're dealing with it by _not_ dealing with it."

Klinger shot him a warning look, but she only shrugged. "We can't all rely on jokes during trying times," she said calmly.

The barb wasn't lost on Hawkeye. "I think I resent that," he said dryly.

Malone just smiled again. "Like I said, everyone is different." Her gaze suddenly shifted to a spot somewhere over Hawkeye's shoulder, and her smile faded. "Then again, some of us are just jerks," she muttered.

Hawkeye turned around, and saw that Charles had snuck in without his knowledge and was standing in the mess line. He looked back just in time to find Malone watching the major, a look of pain and heartbreak written clearly on her freckled face.

And then, just like that, it was gone, and her expression became carefully neutral again.

_That was it._ There _was_ a chink in her armor. And its name was Charles Emerson Winchester.

She focused her attention on her tray as the major came over, hovering awkwardly near their table. "Good morning," he said evenly.

No one answered him. Klinger glared openly, while Malone simply ignored him. "Right," Charles murmured in a resigned tone, as if he'd expected as much. "As you were, then."

As he moved off to sit somewhere else, Hawkeye realized he had been holding his breath. He let it out slowly, wondering just how much was actually going on that he didn't know about.

After an uncomfortable silence, Mulcahy abruptly cleared his throat. "Since you're here, Hawkeye," he said, "I was wondering if I might ask a favor of you."

The surgeon held back a yawn, his fatigue beginning to catch up with him. "Ask quickly, Father. Once I'm done stuffing my face, I'm hitting the sack."

"Oh, dear," the priest replied in disappointment. "Well, perhaps I'll ask someone else, then."

"Ask someone else what, Father?" Klinger inquired.

Mulcahy paused to swallow a bite of his breakfast. "I'm driving up to the orphanage today to drop off some supplies, and to check up on little Jun Lee-Cho. His cast is due to come off, and I'd like someone to come along to do it; preferably a doctor or a nurse."

"I'll do it," said Malone instantly.

Hawkeye and Klinger looked up at her sharply. "Oh," Mulcahy said uncertainly. "Uhh... I don't know, Nellie."

She smiled slightly. "It's all right, Father. You don't have to make that face. I'll go with you."

Klinger leaned over and put a hand on her arm. "Are you sure that's a good idea, Nell?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, stop it, Max," she answered, though not at all harshly. "I'm fine. I don't mind, really." She shot a pointed look toward Charles, who was seated at another table. "It's not as if there's anything keeping me here."

Mulcahy still seemed reluctant. "Well... If you're absolutely sure. I was planning on leaving at 0900 hours. Can you be ready to go by then?"

She nodded. "No problem. I'll just need to grab some plaster shears."

Klinger regarded her unhappily. As the nurse and the chaplain both rose to their feet, Hawkeye felt like he should say something. Pushing back from the table, he stood up and caught her lightly by her uninjured wrist. "Listen, Nellie." She gazed up at him expectantly. "Hang in there, okay? Just... don't give up hope."

For the briefest of moments, her true emotions seemed to bubble to the surface. "Right," she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "Because my life is just full of happy endings."

Hawkeye felt a twinge of sympathy. He tried to say more, but Malone had already extricated herself from his grasp. As she turned to leave, however, she was stopped again.

Only this time, it was Charles.

He cleared his throat. "Malone," he began stiffly.

Her little frame had gone rigid. "What is it, Major?" she returned impassively.

Once again, Hawkeye felt acutely aware that there was something big going on between them — something he was missing. "I couldn't help overhearing," Charles continued. "And I..." He faltered. "I wanted to tell you..."

Malone exhaled loudly, clearly impatient. "Yes?"

"Take care of yourself," he said softly.

She looked up at him bitterly. "Don't I always?" she fired back, before pushing past him and striding swiftly out the door.

"Nellie, wait," Klinger called, springing up from the table and running after her.

Charles gave a defeated sigh. And then, he seemed to realize that every single person in the mess tent had been watching the exchange with unconcealed curiosity. "What are you all staring at?" he snarled, turning on his heel and stalking out of the mess tent.

Hawkeye stared at the door for a long moment. At last, he arrived at a decision.

"Well, Charles," he said as he stepped inside the Swamp, "you certainly have a way with people."

From his place on his narrow cot, the Bostonian shot him a glare across the tent that could have peeled the paint off a wall at thirty paces. "Pierce, spare me whatever self-righteous tripe you formed in your head on the way over here," he growled.

Hawkeye just shook his head in amazement. "Boy, you really are something. I don't know how you managed to ruin the only good thing you've got going for you in this hellhole, but whatever you did, it worked like a charm."

Suddenly Charles shot to his feet, and Hawkeye was forcibly reminded just how tall the man was. "This is the only time I am going to say this," he told him in a quiet, dangerous voice. "Stay out of my affairs."

But Hawkeye refused to be intimidated. "Oh, believe me, I have," he replied. "For quite a while, actually." Charles turned away, but he continued talking, unfazed. "You know, you may not be aware of this, Charles, but you're not nearly as inscrutable as you seem to think. Although I've got to hand it to you. You'd almost had me convinced that you weren't even human. But I guess even Super-Snob has his Kryptonite."

"What absurd drivel are you spouting?" Charles asked irritably.

He took a deep breath. "Look. I've kept my mouth shut about this for a long time. But enough is enough. Staying away from a girl because you're too afraid to admit that you care about her is one thing. What you're doing to that poor kid right now can only be described as torture."

"Pierce, I am warning you..."

"Who are you trying to fool, anyway?" Hawkeye plowed on heedlessly. "Any idiot can see you're crazy about her. And whatever her reasons, she seems to be just as crazy about you. Why don't you just tell her? What are you afraid of? Being vulnerable? Or being happy?"

Charles was quickly losing his temper. "You know _nothing_, Pierce," he spat. "You can't even _begin_ to fathom what I am going through, what I am feeling."

An incredulous laugh escaped Hawkeye. "Fine," he said, throwing up his hands. "You know what? You're right. I don't know. I have no _idea_ what Nellie sees in you." Charles opened his mouth to interject, but he wasn't finished. "You treat people with scorn and derision, you lash out at everyone who tries to get close to you, and you're so damned full of yourself that you can't even recognize help when it's being offered to you. You're right to push Nellie away. She's better off without you."

As Hawkeye spoke, the other man seemed to deflate in front of his very eyes. Slowly, he sank onto his cot again, resting his forearms on his thighs. "You'll hear no argument from me there," he said, his voice low and bleak.

Hawkeye felt an unexpected pang. "Charles..." With a sigh, he sat down beside him on the cot. "Look, I know I drive you nuts," he said quietly, "and I know you'll probably clock me one for saying this, but you're kind of important to me. You and Nellie are both important to me." He shook his head. "Why are you doing this to yourself? Why are you doing this to _her?_"

Charles closed his eyes in despair. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," he pressed stubbornly.

For a long time, Charles didn't reply. Hawkeye was beginning to think he never would. And then he gave an almost inaudible sigh. "It's because I'm a Winchester," he murmured.

Hawkeye blinked. "Come again?"

He stared down at his tightly clasped hands for a moment. "I come from a very old, very distinguished family," he said at length. He seemed to be choosing his words with infinite care. "Our ancestry can be traced all the way back to the thirteenth century. The _thirteenth_ century, can you imagine?" Hawkeye wasn't sure what to say to this, so he just shrugged. "Until now, I have always been proud of my heritage. However, for the first time in my life, I find myself wishing that..." He swallowed. "That I could be someone else. _Anyone_ else."

"Wait a minute." Hawkeye could hardly believe what he was hearing. "You can't be serious. Your stupid pedigree? _That's_ what this is about? Nellie isn't _good_ enough for you?"

"Of _course_ she is!" Charles snapped indignantly, as if offended by the mere suggestion. And then, just as quickly, his expression softened, and his voice took on a tender quality Hawkeye had never heard before. "She is the single most extraordinary woman I have ever known. She's been the one saving grace that makes living in this place remotely bearable for me. But my family..." He exhaled shakily. "My family is another matter entirely. The fact that she saved my life, not to mention my very sanity, would make no difference to them. All they would see is the daughter of a poor Irish factory worker. They would never approve the match." He spread his hands in a futile gesture. "So you can see why telling Malone of my feelings for her would ultimately do more harm than good."

Hawkeye shook his head. It was painfully obvious that Charles had been agonizing over this for quite some time, but the reason was still unclear. It didn't seem _necessary_.

"I don't understand why you should care so much about what your family thinks," he said. "I mean, after all, it's _your_ life, isn't it? Shouldn't you get to decide what to do with it? Doesn't your opinion count for anything?"

Charles gave a sour, ironic laugh. "So naïve," he murmured, almost to himself. "Tell me truthfully, Pierce. If you met a woman whom you adored, and you knew your father would disapprove of her... can you honestly say you wouldn't care? At _all?_"

He hesitated, which caused the other man to raise an eyebrow. "I... No," he had to concede. "I mean, yeah. Of course I'd care. I admit it would be hard, but... if my dad knew how much she really meant to me, he would come around eventually."

Charles smiled mirthlessly. "That's the difference, isn't it? Where your father would learn to accept it, my family would never do so."

"How can you be so sure of that?" Hawkeye demanded.

"Because I am exactly like them!" Charles nearly shouted in frustration. He stood up and began pacing the Swamp restlessly. "Or rather, I used to be," he continued, lowering his voice. "Surely you haven't forgotten what an utter beast I was to my poor sister when she became engaged to an Italian. If my experiences here in Korea had not changed my perspective, I've no doubt that I would still be as intolerant and narrow-minded as I ever was. As _they_ are _now._" He drew in a breath which caught in his throat. "They would never... never accept Malone," he said quietly, his face etched with pain. "They would put her through absolute hell, and I refuse to subject her to that."

Hawkeye felt another pang of sympathy. He hadn't counted on feeling this sorry for the stuck-up surgeon, but his anguish was almost palpable. "I don't think you're giving Nellie enough credit," he said. "She's a tough kid. I'm sure she could hold her own against a few cranky in-laws."

Charles was already shaking his head. "You've no idea, Pierce. You cannot even begin to imagine how vindictive they can be. The pettiness and cruelty of which they are capable."

"Uh, yeah, well, actually..."

Lowering himself down into his chair, Charles heaved a sigh. "There's nothing to be done," he said miserably. "Believe me, if there was, I would have thought of it." He passed his hands wearily through his hair. "There are no... 'happy endings' for us, as she would say."

At this Hawkeye frowned. "Well, not with an attitude like that."

Charles began to massage his temples, as if he were developing a headache. "Pierce, just... leave me alone," he said, sounding indescribably tired. "Please. Leave me alone."

There was a short silence. Then Hawkeye nodded slightly. "Okay. I'm going." The mattress in the supply room was more comfortable than his cot, anyway.

He rose to his feet and turned to leave the Swamp. "But before I do," he said, "I'm going to give you some advice. You're probably not going to take it, but I'm going to make you listen anyway."

"Do go on, by all means," Charles muttered through his hands. "I'm on tenterhooks."

"Get over yourself," he said bluntly, causing Charles to look up at him in surprise. "This isn't just about your family," Hawkeye told him. "This is about _you._ This is about your pride, and prejudice, and everything you've been conditioned to believe, and you know what? Take it from someone who's loved and lost. None of it matters. _None_ of it." He paused to let his words sink in. "All that matters is her. Get that into your head."

Charles didn't reply. But as Hawkeye lifted a hand to push the door open, he heard him clear his throat.

"And if I can't?" he asked quietly.

He turned and met the man's gaze. "Then you'll lose her," he said simply.

As he watched, Charles gave a slow shake of his head. "That's where you're wrong, Pierce," he replied in a low, resigned voice. "I've already lost her."

* * *

"Are you sure I can't get you to change your mind about this?" Klinger asked as Nellie loaded her canvas medic bag into the jeep. He seemed to be trying his best to keep her from leaving. Everywhere she turned, there he was, standing directly in her way.

She shook her head firmly. "Afraid not," she answered. "It'll be a nice distraction for me. Besides, I'm looking forward to seeing Jun again. I'm interested to find out if he's been practicing on that tin whistle Sergeant Sullivan gave him."

"But you could just as easily go another time, right?" he countered, with his characteristic talent for persuasion. "Why does it have to be now?"

She sighed impatiently, but he didn't let up. "Come on, Nell," he pleaded, tugging gently at her hand. "Stay with me. We'll see if we can get a poker game together. Wouldn't that be a blast? We could even get Major Freedman to come up from Seoul. He's always up for a game." He gave her his most charming smile. "What do you say?"

Nellie frowned at him in confusion. "Major Freedman?" she repeated. "_Doctor_ Freedman, the division psychiatrist? But why would he..." She trailed off as realization suddenly dawned on her. "Oh," she said flatly. "I see."

Klinger abruptly turned crimson under his olive skin, clearly embarrassed at being caught out. "Nellie—" he began.

She cut him off, pulling her hand out of his. "Is that why you're trying so hard to keep me here? For an impromptu psych evaluation?"

"You've got it all wrong, Nell," he protested. "He just wants to talk to you, that's all. Just talk."

"Why?"

He swallowed. "Because I... kind of asked him to."

"You _what?_" she exclaimed. "Max! What on earth possessed you to do that?"

"Because I'm _worried_ about you!" he suddenly blurted. Nellie's eyes widened at his unexpected outburst. "Okay? So sue me!" He took a breath, and continued in a calmer tone. "Look, I know you don't want to talk about it, but... ever since Danny went missing, you've been acting really strange."

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This wasn't the first time she'd had to listen to this. Kellye had tried to get her to talk about her feelings, as well as Major Houlihan and Colonel Potter. Nellie had no idea what they had been trying to accomplish by it. So she wasn't expressing her grief the way they all thought she should be. So what? Why did it matter?

"I don't blame you," Klinger went on. "I can't imagine how hard this must be for you. And I want to help, but I don't know how. I just... I can't tell what you're thinking. You're not acting like the girl I know and..." He stopped abruptly.

Nellie's stomach suddenly tightened. "Max..."

"It's not like that," he assured her quickly, laying a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry, that didn't come out right. I didn't mean that I still... you know. Because I don't. Trust me." He sighed at his own ineloquence. "It's just that I care about you, Nell. I'm never gonna _stop_ caring. You know that, right?"

As Nellie returned his tired, anxious gaze, she felt something deep within her begin to relax and unwind ever so slightly. "I know," she said, her voice unexpectedly husky. She cleared her throat. "I care about you, too, Max. And you are so sweet to worry about me. But there's really no need." She shrugged. "I realize that everyone thinks I'm odd, because I'm not reacting the way they would if they were in my situation." She smiled wryly. "But everyone thinks I'm odd _anyway_, right?"

Klinger still seemed skeptical. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked.

She nodded firmly. "Quite sure."

"Okay," he said simply.

Then he surprised her by pulling her into a tight hug. Somewhat taken aback, Nellie returned his embrace, resting her chin on his shoulder. For no reason that she could readily discern, she felt sudden tears spring to her eyes, and she had to blink rapidly to clear her vision.

After a moment, she pulled away and mustered a reassuring smile. "Now go get some sleep," she told him, reaching up and attempting to smooth down his hopelessly disheveled hair. "You look exhausted."

Reluctantly, he returned her smile. "Yeah, I might just take you up on that," he replied. He stifled a yawn and gave her a light pat on the back. "I'll see you later. Tell all the kids hi for me, okay?"

"Will do."

She watched him shuffle off in the direction of his office, dragging his feet heavily behind him. As soon as he was out of sight, however, the confident smile faded from her face. Slowly, she let out the breath she'd been holding in, her eyes tightly shut.

And then she heard approaching footsteps, and she opened her eyes to see Mulcahy making his way toward the jeep, carrying the last of the supplies. "Are we ready to go?" he asked cheerily.

In a second, the unflappable smile returned. "All set, Father."

The trek to the orphanage took longer than Nellie had anticipated. The road was riddled with dips and potholes, as well as the occasional boulder that had to be avoided. As the jeep bounced and jostled along the uneven road, it was all she could do to hold on. She didn't know how Mulcahy was able to endure the journey on a regular basis. But she admired him for it.

Twisting around in her seat, she looked over her shoulder at the boxes upon boxes of supplies crammed into the back of the jeep. "You've certainly brought a lot of stuff, Father," she commented.

From his place in the driver's seat, Mulcahy smiled. "Oh, yes," he replied, keeping his eyes on the road. "And yet, it never seems like enough. Still," he added brightly, "it's by no means a thankless task. I just love the sight of all those grinning faces that greet me every time I pull into the orphanage. Even if it _is_ because they know I always come bearing sugar."

She chuckled. "You're a good man, Father."

The priest beamed, his cheeks coloring slightly at her praise. "Thank you," he said modestly. "I have a good teacher."

Nellie couldn't help but smile. She was grateful that he hadn't yet attempted to pester her about everything she was going through. But then again, that just wasn't the chaplain's way. He was never pushy or obtrusive about offering help, but he was always there when you were ready to receive it.

As they drove, Nellie gradually became aware that the black storm clouds on the horizon were creeping toward them at an insidiously slow pace. This didn't bother her much; although the temporary break in the gloom was a nice change, the rain wasn't nearly as much of an inconvenience to her as it was to the rest of the 4077th — as long as there was no accompanying thunder, of course. Nevertheless, she did hope the storm would hold off long enough to get to the orphanage and back. The roads were bad enough already without the additional hazards of driving rains and deep patches of mud.

Finally, they arrived at the orphanage, a long, rectangular building that was almost depressing in its spartan practicality. Its humble thatched roof appeared to have been repaired multiple times. As the vehicle slowed to a halt in the dusty drive, the door of the building banged open, and a flood of Korean children came rushing out to meet them.

The air became filled with excited shouts as the miniature stampede swiftly surrounded the jeep. Nellie chuckled as several children grabbed Mulcahy by the sleeve and attempted to pull him bodily out of the car.

"I think I saw a crowbar in the back, if you need some help, Father," she said jokingly.

The priest threw up his hands in a comical gesture of surrender. "'Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me,'" he quoted with a good-natured smile, which suddenly turned into a wince. "Yeowch! All right, that's enough suffering for now. Settle down, everyone! _Cha-ma! Cha-ma!_"

He reached under his seat and produced a brown paper bag, which proved to be filled with little rice candies. It wasn't until he had distributed them that the unruly mob finally began to calm down. To Nellie's amusement, she was given one, as well.

"Obedience through bribery, eh, Father?" she said wryly, unwrapping her candy.

He grinned sheepishly. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Oh, trust me, I'm not knocking its effectiveness," she told him, laughing. "After all, it always worked on my..." Her voice faltered almost imperceptibly. "On my brother."

Mulcahy caught it instantly, and the look of sympathy he gave her was almost more than she could endure. "Nellie?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head. "I'm fine," she said shortly.

Before he could respond, she quickly climbed out of the jeep and turned her attention to the children. As she was introducing herself to a rather dirty little boy with a runny nose, a woman in a nun's habit emerged from the orphanage and came out to greet them. She was middle-aged and had a pleasant, if somewhat tired, face.

"Father, it's a joy to see you, as always," she said warmly. She turned to Nellie. "And who is this?"

"This is Lieutenant Nellie Malone," he answered, "one of the 4077th's most dedicated nurses. Nellie, allow me to introduce Sister Theresa Collins."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sister," said Nellie.

"Likewise, my child," the nun replied. "It was very good of you to come all this way. Especially since it looks like the weather's about to turn," she added, gazing warily up at the darkening sky.

"It's no trouble at all," the redhead assured her. "I've been looking forward to seeing Jun again. How is he doing?"

"Very well," said Sister Theresa with a smile. "He's recovering quickly; though nowhere near as quickly as he'd like, of course. Children are so impatient, you know. I have a feeling he would be out playing in the puddles with the others in a full leg cast, if he had his way." She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "He'll be very glad to see you, though. Please, come inside."

"Of course, Sister. Lead the way." She cast a look over her shoulder at Mulcahy, who had starting unloading supplies from the back of the jeep. "Do you need any help with that, Father?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "Go on ahead, Nellie. I'll be along in a minute."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. Besides, Hawkeye has forbidden me to allow you to do any heavy lifting."

She obediently followed the nun inside, though not without a resentful glare down at her bandaged wrist. Inside the orphanage, it was much more spacious and airy than she had expected. In the manner of the traditional Korean style, the building had vaulted ceilings and exposed woodwork; the giant central support beam that stretched overhead looked nearly two feet in diameter. The sister led her through an open area which served as the schoolroom and into another room which was packed with rows of narrow cots. Beyond, there was a smaller kitchen area, as well as an even smaller room which presumably belonged to the nun. Nellie saw no bathroom, but that was not uncommon; many structures in Korea did not have indoor plumbing.

Nellie followed Sister Theresa to the far end of the children's sleeping area, where Jun Lee-Cho was sitting up in a cot and looking rather put out by it. His sour expression cleared, however, when he saw the familiar red-haired nurse.

"_An-yŏng-ha-se-yo,_ Nellie-_sshi_," he said to her, a smile breaking out on his features.

"_An-yŏng_, Jun," she answered, returning his smile. She seated herself on the edge of his cot and opened her medic bag. "I bet you'll be glad to get that itchy old cast off, huh? I can't say I blame you. This bandage on my wrist is starting to drive me batty."

As she fished around inside the bag, trying to find the plaster-cutting shears, Jun reached out and pointed to the jade necklace dangling at her throat along with her dog tags. "_Dal-tokki!_" he exclaimed.

Nellie grinned. "Yeah, that's right," she replied. She took it off and handed it to him. "The moon rabbit."

The little boy held it closer to his face for a better look. "Moo rab-bee," he repeated.

She chuckled quietly. "Close enough."

At last she found what she was looking for. As Jun caught sight of the gleaming pair of scissors, his eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, no, no, it's all right," she assured him. "These won't hurt you. They're for the cast." She turned to the nun. "Sister, would you please tell him that I'm going to take his cast off, and that it's not going to hurt at all?"

The sister said something in Korean, and Jun seemed to relax marginally. Slowly, Nellie lowered the shears and began to cut through the plaster. It was slow going; they were not left-handed scissors, and she was forced to use her injured hand. By the time she finished, she had been obliged to stifle several oaths. Cursing in front of a nun was generally frowned upon, after all.

"Now, be honest," she said as the cast was finally removed. "Was that really so terrible?"

Jun gave his little foot an experimental roll, then cautiously brought his knee up toward his chest. A slow smile spread over his face. "_Kam-sa-ham-ni-da._"

"_A-ni-e-yo_," she said. He made a beckoning motion with his hand. Slightly bemused, she leaned closer to him, and he hung the necklace around her neck. She laughed and ruffled his hair. "Thanks, kiddo."

Sister Theresa looked on with a smile. "You have quite a way with him," she told Nellie. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were injured, as well. Bless you for your self-sacrificing spirit, my child."

The redhead blushed in embarrassment, unsure of what to say to this. "Thank you, Sister," she replied sheepishly. "It's really no trouble, though. To be honest, this is a rather new experience for me. I've never gotten to make a real house call before. It makes me feel like a doctor."

Jun tugged on her sleeve, and she looked down to find him holding the tin whistle that Miles Sullivan had given him as a parting gift. "Hey, there it is! You still have it. Miles would be thrilled." She made a gesture mimicking the action of playing the instrument. "Have you been practicing? Do you know any songs yet?"

"As a matter of fact, I've taught him one song already," said Sister Theresa. "He's very good at playing by ear. All I had to do was hum the song, and he picked out the notes all by himself."

She told him something in Korean, and the boy nodded. Holding the tin whistle to his lips, he began to play. It only took a handful of notes for Nellie to recognize the song. When she did, it caused her throat to close up suddenly, and her eyes to well with tears.

It was _Danny Boy_.

_Why_ did it have to be _Danny Boy?_

Turning away abruptly, she took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut to stop the offending tears from escaping. _Please, no, not here,_ she thought desperately.

At that moment, Father Mulcahy came in, surrounded by a gaggle of children, one of which was wearing his white panama hat. As the chaplain caught sight of Nellie, his usual placid smile faded, replaced quickly by a look of concern. He hastened forward and bent over her, resting a tentative hand on her shoulder.

"Nellie?" he said softly. "What's the matter?"

She looked up into his worried blue eyes, and for a moment, all she wanted to do was bury her face in his jacket and cry until her voice gave out. But she couldn't. She _wouldn't._

"Nothing," she heard herself say. "Absolutely nothing, Father." She gave him a weak smile. "It's just this song, that's all. It gets me every time."

_Lying to a priest. I'm definitely going to Hell._

Mulcahy frowned, clearly not satisfied with her answer. "Nellie—"

She nudged Jun, who had stopped playing, presumably afraid that he had done something wrong. "Go on," she said. "Let's hear the rest of it, kiddo."

The boy looked uncertain, but at her insistence, he raised the instrument to his lips again. As he continued playing, Nellie listened with an encouraging smile, aware that Mulcahy was watching her very closely.

When the song finally ended, Mulcahy, Sister Theresa, and the children all burst into applause. Suppressing a sigh of relief, Nellie clapped as well as she could with her bandaged wrist. "Good job," she told Jun, who beamed.

Mulcahy turned to the nun. "Well, I've got all the supplies inside, Sister," he said. "The weather's threatening to turn nasty at any moment. I think it's time we were off."

She nodded. "Of course, Father," she replied. "Better to be safe than sorry." She began to walk with them toward the door. "Bless you both for coming. If there's ever anything we—"

Without warning she was cut off by a strange, loud hissing sound directly overhead. But before Nellie could even wonder what it was, it was followed by a deafening explosion that shook the ground under her feet. Without thinking, she flattened herself out on top of Jun, covering his head with her arms, while Mulcahy did the same to her. As she looked out at the terrified faces of the children, her ears ringing, there was another explosion. And then another, and another, each one closer than the last.

The orphanage was under shellfire.

* * *

A/N: Hi, my name is Bad Octopus, and I'm addicted to writing cliff-hangers. Sorry about that. Rest assured, I'll have a lot more free time to write the next chapter, so it shouldn't take nearly as long for me to update.

Also, I really hope I got Sidney's character right in this chapter, because I adore him. Please review, you lovely readers, you.

-Octopus


	23. The Fighting Irish

A/N: Gah. Even in spite of moving to a new apartment, I thought it wouldn't take me long to write this chapter. Well, that's unrealistic optimism for you! Thankfully, I'm all moved in, and mostly unpacked, so updates should come a lot more quickly now. My eternal gratitude goes out to **blown-transistor** for finding time in her hectic schedule to beta read for me. Thanks, milady!

Also, you'll notice that the humor I've tried to keep running throughout this story will be significantly lacking in this, as well as in the following chapters. I apologize in advance. You'll soon see why.

Disclaimer: As much as I'd like to claim otherwise, _M*A*S*H_ and its ridiculously lovable characters are not mine. They're just on loan.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Fighting Irish

During an emergency, the most common and agreed-upon advice was to remain calm and not to panic. Nellie had to wonder if the people who came up with that advice had ever found themselves in the middle of an air raid, with live shells being dropped on their heads.

"Panicking" was a fairly good description of what she was doing at the moment. It would have been more accurate to say that she was running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

Her one and only coherent thought was to save the children, but when it came to the question of how to actually accomplish that task, she was at a total loss. There was nowhere to hide, no safe place to escape the hellstorm that was currently raining down around them. Back in the States, she knew, students in school were being told to crouch under their desks in the event of an air raid or nuclear strike. In Nellie's opinion, that kind of precautionary measure was roughly as effective as attempting to stop a falling anvil with an umbrella.

Still, one could argue that it was better than nothing.

"Everyone get under the beds!" she shouted, straining to be heard over the barrage of explosions. "Come on, quickly! Hurry, hurry, let's go!"

As was becoming the case more and more frequently, Nellie was mentally kicking herself in the keister for not learning more Korean in her leisure time. Thankfully, the children didn't need to wait for a translation. Watching her frantic gestures, they quickly caught on and dove for cover under the rickety cots, while Father Mulcahy did his best to reassure them, using the handful of native phrases in his repertoire.

"What are you telling them?" Nellie yelled to the priest as she lifted Jun Lee-Cho out of his own bed and helped him crawl underneath it.

"I'm telling them not to be frightened!" he hollered back, his voice cracking.

"Sound advice! Are you frightened?"

"Oh, good Lord, yes!"

In contrast to their terror-induced hysteria, Sister Theresa was already taking action. While Nellie could only look on in amazed disbelief from her place beside Jun, the nun made a dash for the nearest doorway and braced herself under it as the next wave of shellfire shook the walls around them.

"What are you doing!" Nellie called to her.

"We can't stay here!" she shouted back. "We're sitting ducks! I've got a truck parked out back! Get the children together while I pull it around—"

Another explosion rocked the orphanage, making it impossible to hear the rest of Theresa's sentence. But her meaning was clear: she was going to make a desperate sprint for the truck and, assuming she made it, meet them at the front of the building.

Quickly, Nellie nodded her comprehension. Feeling sick with fear and a sense of utter helplessness, she watched as the sister waited for a lull in the shelling, then disappeared from the doorway.

As yet another shell dropped with alarmingly close proximity, Nellie turned to Jun, and she couldn't help noticing with a kind of detached fascination that she could see every detail of his face with perfect clarity — from the racing pulse in his neck right down to each individual pore in his youthful skin. It wasn't until she saw her own terrified face reflected in his dark eyes that she realized what she must look like to these poor, frightened children.

_This isn't me,_ she thought, thoroughly ashamed of her weakness.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed Jun's small hand and held it tightly in her bandaged one. "We're going to get out of this," she told him in her most reassuring voice. "I promise."

Whether or not the boy understood her individual words was questionable. But from the way he squeezed her hand, she knew he understood well enough.

"Father?" she called out.

"I'm still here!"

"Are you ready?"

"No," he admitted, "but that's never stopped me before!"

"Good enough! Let's go!"

Scrambling to their feet, the chaplain and the nurse helped the children crawl out from under their flimsy shelters. As Mulcahy did his best to keep them in a tightly-knit group, Nellie ran to the front door to see if Sister Theresa had managed to pull the truck around in one piece. Sure enough, a battered old Chevy stood idling in the dirt drive, while the nun sat behind the wheel, urging them to get in.

"_Now!_" Nellie yelled.

At that precise moment, another explosion caused the ground to quake beneath them, sending Mulcahy and several of the children sprawling. With a curse, Nellie dashed over to help them back up, dodging bits of falling debris.

"Who the hell bombs an _orphanage?_" she shouted furiously, hauling the shaken priest upright.

He shook his head sadly, raising a cloud of dust from his hair. "I'm afraid if I think about it, it might trigger a crisis of faith," he answered, with heartbreaking honesty.

Not knowing what to say, and not having the time to think about it, Nellie simply placed a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get out of here, Father."

He straightened his glasses and nodded. Turning to Jun, who was still limping despite the removal of his cast, he lifted the boy onto his back. Together, they led the children outside, where the storm had arrived in earnest. As the rain pelted their heads, they hurried to the truck and piled the children into the back, hoisting the younger ones onto the truck bed like sacks of flour.

Twisting around in the driver's seat, Theresa did a quick count. "We're a head short!" she cried. "One of the girls is missing!"

Nellie and Mulcahy shared a harassed look, and the chaplain rushed back inside, the redhead following close at his heels.

It didn't take long to find the missing child. As they hurried through the schoolroom and into the sleeping area, Nellie spotted a little girl standing beside one of the cots. She was tearing the blankets off and throwing them to the floor, frantically searching for something.

Suppressing a groan, Nellie ran over to the child, trying to take her hand. "We've got to go, honey." The girl snatched her hand out of her grasp and continued her search with renewed fervor.

"Nellie!" Mulcahy called urgently.

"Come on, just leave it!" Nellie cried in desperation. "It's not worth it!"

The girl raised her face to hers, her dirty face streaked with tears. With a sigh, Nellie picked up the cot and overturned it, pulling the thin mattress off its frame and tossing it aside. As she did so, a small object tumbled to the floor — a ragdoll, with one of its button eyes missing and its left arm hanging by a single thread. The little girl snatched it up, and Nellie scooped her into her arms, doll and all, and made a mad dash for the door.

Suddenly there was another explosion, accompanied by a noise which sounded strangely like a gunshot. Nellie realized in confusion that it had come from overhead. Rooted to the floor, she looked up, and felt her stomach give a lurch. The shelling had weakened the structural integrity of the orphanage. The enormous central support beam had a crack in it, and it was widening by the second.

At any moment, the roof would come crashing down around them.

"Get out!" she shouted at Mulcahy, bursting into a sprint. "_Now!_"

Wooden splinters rained down on her head as the entire building creaked and groaned around them. In her terror, the girl wrapped her arms tightly around Nellie's neck, nearly cutting off her air.

She barely noticed.

With another deafening crack, the giant beam split in half. Time slowed to a crawl as gravity pulled the ceiling inexorably toward them. In those few, but strangely long seconds, Nellie seemed to have plenty of time to decide what to do. Setting the child on her feet, she shoved her as hard as she possibly could.

She watched, almost in slow motion, as the girl sailed through the air, not unlike a ragdoll herself. She landed on one foot, stumbled a few times, and then lost her balance and fell, rolling perhaps half a dozen feet before coming to a stop beside Father Mulcahy, who was staring back at her with a look of profound horror on his face.

And then, abruptly, time sped up again.

With the speed of an onrushing train, half of the massive beam came hurtling down to meet her. She dropped to the floor and attempted to roll away, but she was too slow — so slow it was almost laughable.

It was with more surprise than pain that Nellie felt her femur snap under the weight of the beam, pinning her to the floor. She looked down at her trapped limb in confusion, wondering why it didn't hurt. It certainly _should._

Oh. It did.

A piteous, agonized cry ripped from her throat, above the _hiss-BOOM_ of the shellfire. For several seconds, she thought she might pass out. She found herself fervently wishing she would. Or maybe she would just die. Anything had to be better than this excruciatingly, mind-bogglingly, _blindingly_ intense pain. No one could endure this and live. Could they?

"_Nellie!_"

Was that Father Mulcahy? She couldn't tell. She couldn't see anything. Probably because she couldn't manage to wrench her eyes open.

"Nellie! Oh, my God! Are you all right? Say something!"

It _was_ Mulcahy. Odd; it didn't sound anything like him. His normally mild voice was hoarse, ragged. Like he'd been gargling nails and broken glass.

When she could bring herself to speak, she found she didn't sound much better. "Father," she rasped. "The girl..."

Through the pain, she felt a hand on her shoulder. "She's safe," he told her. "She's in the truck with the others. Hang on, Nellie, I'm going to get this thing off of you."

She could have told him not to waste his energy; he might as well try to lift a sequoia tree. But she was finding it difficult to string words together into a coherent sentence. His hand left her shoulder, and she heard him struggling to move the beam, but it didn't even budge.

"Father," she said again, bringing him back to her side. She attempted to focus. "Get the kids out of here."

"Don't be ridiculous!" he exclaimed vehemently. "I'm not leaving you!"

With a tremendous effort, she forced herself to open her eyes. Her left leg was wedged under the immense beam, and all around there were broken rafters and bits of scattered straw from the fallen roof. By some miracle, a single corner of the building remained standing, its meager shelter protecting them from the rain.

And next to her, an Army chaplain in wire-framed glasses sat crouched in the debris, his blue eyes terrified but determined.

Reaching out with shaking fingers, Nellie took his hand in hers. "It's all right," she said weakly. "Just go."

Mulcahy held her gaze for a long moment. Then, with a squeeze of his hand, he rose to his feet.

As she heard the crunch of his footsteps growing fainter and fainter, she felt a tear slide down her cheek, followed by another.

_I'm sorry, Danny,_ she thought, her eyes slipping shut. _I'm sorry, Charles._

And then suddenly there was a hand on her shoulder again. She opened her eyes to see Mulcahy kneeling beside her. Through her blurred vision, he was like some kind of bespectacled guardian angel.

"I told Sister Theresa to drive to the 4077th and bring back help," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I won't abandon you, Nellie."

Even now, she found herself fighting the urge to cry. So she simply nodded.

* * *

The weather, Charles mused darkly, was the perfect accompaniment to his mood.

As the heavy drops hammered the canvas roof of the Swamp, while the low roll of thunder rumbled in the distance, he sat hunched at his desk, glaring down at the empty sheet of personalized stationary in front of him. The monogrammed watermark at the top of the page seemed to mock him.

Taking up his fountain pen, he thought for a moment. Then he began to write.

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_I hope this letter finds you both in good health. I am as well as can be expected, given my current circumstances. However, there is one subject which has been weighing considerably on my mind for some time._

From the business-like tone, he might as well have been writing to his stock broker. He continued anyway.

_I am aware that you both value directness, so I shall come straight to the point. Several months ago, a nurse was transferred to my unit by the name of Fenella Malone. Since that time, I have gotten to know this young lady well, and have come to admire and respect her greatly. In truth, she has become very important to me; so much so, in fact, that I cannot imagine my life without her._

Shaking his head in despair, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it in the waste basket to join half a dozen others like it. _Sentiment,_ he thought miserably. _That's the last thing they would understand._

Though he would probably never admit it to the man, Pierce's words had left a deep impression on him. His final words, in particular, kept chasing each other through Charles's tumultuous mind.

_All that matters is her. Get that into your head, or you'll lose her._

What really _was_ preventing him from telling his parents about Malone? Was he, as he had told Pierce, protecting her from his family's wrath? Or was it perhaps something a little deeper? A little less noble?

Could it be that _he_ was the one who dreaded their reaction?

As a boy, Charles had always had a fear of displeasing his parents, especially his father. His very earliest memory involved himself as a small child, standing next to a broken vase, while two very tall people loomed over him, both wearing expressions of vague annoyance and disapprobation. As if he were simply a nuisance, to be suffered until he was old enough to be sent to boarding school.

And that association had followed him through youth and into adulthood. He had always tried his hardest to excel at everything he did, and his hard work had paid off; he had been a model student, and he was a brilliant surgeon. In every aspect of his life, he strove to be, not just adequate, but exceptional. He told himself that it was because he was a Winchester, and Winchesters never settled for anything but the very best.

But deep down, it was because he wanted his parents to be proud of him.

_That_ was the real reason he had convinced himself that he and Malone could never be together. The possibility that his parents might not approve of her filled him with fear.

He was afraid. Afraid of his own flesh and blood.

It was disgraceful. Absolutely disgraceful. Was he really that spineless? He had been willing to die, just to keep Malone from harm. And yet he was allowing his own fear to stop him from telling her the truth: that he _did_ care for her. Perhaps more than he'd ever cared for anyone.

She had always been honest with him. It was one of the things he loved most about her. At the very least, she deserved the same level of honesty from him.

There was a sudden knock at the door. Instinctively, Charles moved to conceal the letter he'd been writing, only to realize he had already thrown it away. "Enter," he muttered, shaking his head.

The door swung open, and Margaret stepped inside, her blonde hair dripping from the downpour. She made a show of looking around the Swamp, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the laundry scattered all over the floor, before her gaze lighted on Charles. "Oh," she said. "I was looking for Pierce. Have you seen him?"

"Try Rosie's," he answered in a bored, listless tone. "Or the Officers' Club. Or for that matter, any establishment equipped with a table or two under which he might drink himself into a stupor."

Margaret nodded absently. "Right. I'll do that." Despite her words, she didn't seem inclined to leave.

Charles twisted around in his chair to look at her. "Was there anything else?" he deadpanned.

The blonde nurse shrugged minutely. "Nope. Not really. If you don't mind, though, I'll just wait here until the rain slackens off a bit."

"If you must." He would have preferred to be alone, but he had neither the inclination nor the mental energy to argue with her.

Instead, he picked up a volume at random from his collection of books and began to read. Or, rather, he stared blankly at the words on the page until they all bled together into an incomprehensible amalgam of jumbled letters. Meanwhile, Margaret meandered leisurely around the Swamp, flipping through magazines (thankfully none of Pierce's were in plain sight), gazing out the window, and displaying a remarkable lack of concern for the storm that raged outside.

Finally, with an air of familiarity that would later strike him as excessively forward, she plopped down on the edge of Charles's bunk and slapped him lightly on the knee. "You know, Charles, I was just thinking," she said. "Since you're here, I'd like your help with something."

He regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "Indeed?" he asked dryly. "Well, how fortuitous for you that I just happened to be in the place where I spend a considerable portion of every single day." His sarcasm was almost palpable. "What is it, Margaret?"

"Since you asked so nicely," she said tartly, rolling her eyes. "I have a proposal I've been meaning to put to the colonel. I've given it a lot of thought, but I wanted to get your opinion on it first."

Charles nodded wordlessly, wishing she would come to the point already.

"I was wondering... Malone's been under a lot of stress lately. What with her brother missing, and..." She cleared her throat. "And everything else. I think she could use some time off. Like, say... a week's R-and-R in Tokyo. What do you think about that?"

At the first mention of Malone's name, Charles went immediately on the defensive. But as Margaret outlined her suggestion, he couldn't deny the wisdom in it.

He chose his words carefully before replying. "I think that would be a splendid gesture," he said. "She certainly deserves a respite." _No doubt she'll be thrilled to get away from me,_ he thought ruefully.

Margaret was nodding. "Absolutely. I agree, one hundred percent." She hesitated before continuing. "I also think that someone should go with her, to show her all the sights. Someone who knows Tokyo better than anyone, who truly appreciates it. Someone who _loves_... Tokyo with every fiber of their being." Charles looked up at her sharply, as her meaning swiftly became clear. "I happen to know a guy who's perfect for the job," she said in a low voice, steadily returning his gaze.

At this Charles swallowed. There was hardly any point in feigning ignorance where Margaret Houlihan was concerned. The woman had a way of cutting straight through pretense, and her powers of perception were almost uncanny.

Besides which, he couldn't deny that a week in Tokyo, with only Malone for company, would be his idea of heaven. The thought of spending seven days in the city he loved, with the woman he adored, was almost too wonderful to contemplate. But there was a very real flaw in that plan.

When he spoke, his voice was nowhere near as steady as he would have preferred. "As... tempting an offer as that is," he said slowly, "I'm not sure my presence would be at all welcome. I haven't exactly endeared myself to her of late."

He could almost hear Malone now: _The understatement of the century..._

Margaret didn't answer. For a moment, she stared down at her hands in thought. "I know you have your reasons for... your conduct," she said at length. She lifted her gaze to meet his again, and there was no accusation in her eyes. No disapproval. Only sympathy. "But I also know my nurses," she went on quietly. "And I know Malone still cares for you."

Charles felt his throat tighten, but she wasn't finished yet. "She's gotten very good at hiding how she feels, but deep down, she's hurting." She placed her hand on his arm. "You are the only one who can help her, Charles. She needs you."

It was becoming more and more difficult to maintain his composure. With Pierce, it was easy to be detached and aloof, at least to some degree. Sarcasm he could deal with; it was practically his second language. Compassion and understanding, on the other hand, were a different matter entirely. He had no defenses against them.

To his shame, he found his vision growing slightly blurry. "I don't know what to say," he whispered hoarsely. "I wish I could, but..." He trailed off, unable to finish.

Margaret sighed softly to herself. "Tell me," she said. "Which would be better? Never telling Malone how you feel, and always regretting it? Or having one perfect week together, that you'd both remember for the rest of your lives?"

It was impossible to refute that kind of logic.

"I'll... consider it," he managed to reply.

She nodded. "Good," she said simply.

She got to her feet, all business again. "It looks like the rain's letting up," she said, looking out the window. Charles watched, feeling rather drained, as she walked slowly to the door. Then she paused reflectively.

"You know," she said after a moment, "Donald's parents never approved of me."

"I remember," he said quietly.

He rose and came to join her. For a while, they stood together in silence, staring out the little window at the rain-drenched compound.

"How did that make you feel?" he asked.

Margaret gave a shrug that was not quite as indifferent as she had no doubt intended it to be. "Small," she confessed at last. "Very small. But," she added, "I was glad to put up with it, because I thought Donald was worth it." She smiled slightly. "And for a while, he was."

She glanced up at him. "Malone is a strong young woman, Charles. I have a feeling she can take whatever your folks can dish out. You know why?"

Too tired to answer, Charles just shook his head.

"Because you _are_ worth it."

He looked down at her sharply, wondering if he'd heard her correctly. But she appeared completely serious. For some reason, this caused a lump to form in his throat.

Before he could reply, or even think of a coherent response, he heard the roar of an engine outside, accompanied by a burst of frenetic honking.

Exchanging a confused frown with Margaret, Charles pulled the door to the Swamp open and stepped out into the rain, the head nurse following close behind. The source of the cacophony was a behemoth of an old pick-up, rusted and dented in about a hundred places, which was pulling into the compound. The jalopy was being driven by a nun, of all preposterous things, and in back were crammed over a dozen Korean children. It was certainly a sight to behold.

The truck slid to a skidding halt in the mud outside the Swamp, and the nun clambered down from the driver's seat, her eyes wide with panic. As she ran to meet them, and her features became discernible, Charles became conscious of a sudden nameless dread. He knew this woman. It was Sister Theresa, the nun who ran the orphanage to the north.

The orphanage that Malone and Mulcahy had left the camp to visit a few hours before.

"What's wrong?" he demanded urgently, taking the sister by the arm. "What's happened?"

"We've got to go back," she said breathlessly. "The orphanage. We were being shelled. Your nurse..."

Charles's heart gave a sickening lurch. "Malone?"

"What about her?" pressed Margaret.

By this time, half the camp had gathered to see what the commotion was about, including Klinger and the colonel. "She's trapped!" the nun told them. "The roof collapsed, and she was still inside! Father Mulcahy tried to get her out, but her leg is pinned under one of the beams! Please, you've got to help!"

"Oh, God, this can't be happening," Klinger groaned.

Charles felt as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him. It seemed that the thunder in the distance _hadn't_ been thunder, after all. All this time, while he had been wallowing in misery inside his tent, the company chaplain and the love of his life had been caught in the middle of an air raid.

He knew there wasn't a moment to lose. The longer Malone was trapped, the lower her chances of survival.

Quickly, he grabbed Klinger by the sleeve. "Max, you know the way to the orphanage, don't you?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Then you'll drive."

The clerk met his eyes, then nodded resolutely. "Right."

"Good. Now get a jeep. And _hurry._"

Before he could sprint off, however, Colonel Potter called him to a halt. "Belay that order, Corporal."

Charles gaped at him in mingled shock and disbelief. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're not taking one of our jeeps," he said firmly.

"Are you out of your mind?" Charles demanded furiously — in hindsight, perhaps not the best question to ask a commanding officer. "Our people are in immediate danger! We've got to get them out of there, as quickly as possible!"

"I'm not disagreeing with you, Major, but if you'll just hang on a minute—"

"I will _not_ lose her!" he shouted.

The silence that followed stretched on for several seconds. Very gently, Potter reached up and laid a hand on his shoulder. It wasn't until he did so that Charles realized he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

"I was just going to tell you to take the ambulance instead," Potter said in a calm, soothing voice. "And take a couple of corpsmen with you. You're going to need a lot more manpower than just you, Klinger, and the padre to get her free."

Forcing himself to take slow, even breaths, Charles nodded. "Yes, sir," he said shakily.

After giving his shoulder a brief squeeze, Potter turned to the others. "All right, everyone, let's get these kids inside," he ordered. "Take them to the mess tent and see that they all get something to eat. Rizzo, sign out the ambulance, on the double. I need at least two volunteers to go with Winchester and Klinger to the orphanage. We've got a chaplain and a trapped and injured nurse under heavy shellfire. Let's get them out! Move!"

His subordinates sprang immediately into action. The nurses moved to help the children out of the truck, while Klinger and Charles grabbed the first two able-bodied corpsmen they could find and took off in the direction of the motorpool, where Sergeant Rizzo had the ambulance ready to go. They all piled inside, and Klinger flung himself down into the driver's seat.

As he turned the engine over, Potter leaned in through the open window. "Godspeed," he told them.

"For the love of God, Klinger, hurry," Charles urged.

"You don't have to tell me twice."

The vehicle roared to life, and the corporal threw it into gear and nosed it forward, jostling over the muddy, uneven ground. It continued picking up speed, until finally leaving the camp behind.

_Hold on, Malone,_ Charles thought desperately. _Hold on._

* * *

Francis Mulcahy was praying his heart out.

He didn't know what else to do. There was no way he could possibly lift that beam; it must have weighed nearly half a ton. He had already tried to wedge a rafter under it to use as a lever, but had no success. He simply wasn't strong enough.

Nor did he know how to help Nellie, because he had no way of giving her any relief. After sifting through the rubble for what seemed like an eternity, he had finally found her medic bag, but the little vial of morphine inside it had been smashed to pieces. There was a bottle of aspirin, but that was out of the question. Mulcahy had enough first aid experience to know that aspirin was an anticoagulant. If Nellie was bleeding internally — which she almost certainly was — it would only make matters worse.

The priest had been left with only one option: to make her as comfortable as possible. Collecting the driest bedding he could find from the children's cots, he had wrapped the girl up tightly in multiple blankets and propped her up against several pillows, until she was almost upright.

And with that accomplished, he was officially out of ideas. Aside from praying, of course.

Crouched on the wet ground, Mulcahy could only watch helplessly as the color slowly but steadily continued to drain from Nellie's face. Despite the fact that she was clearly in agony, she was still trying to keep up her façade of calm stoicism. Never had he met so many stubborn people in his entire life than those he worked with at the 4077th. He suspected it had something to do with their chosen professions. Or maybe reality had simply become too much for all of them, and denial was the best defense.

The girl's throat moved as she swallowed. "How long has it been, Father?" she asked in a paper-dry voice.

He shook his head. The face plate of his wristwatch had been cracked by a piece of falling debris. "I'm not certain," he replied. "It could be an hour, or it could be closer to two. There's no way of knowing." He sighed, his shoulders sagging. "At least the shelling has stopped. The storm must be making it harder for the enemy to see their targets."

"Like that's ever stopped them," Nellie muttered, leaning her head back against the pillows.

Mulcahy looked over at her, and felt a pang. "How are you holding up?" he inquired softly.

She took a shallow breath before replying. "Okay, for the time being," she said tightly. "But I won't be for much longer."

"What makes you say that?" he asked in alarm.

"The longer my leg is compressed, the higher my risk of developing compartment syndrome. That's when increased pressure causes blood to get trapped within the fascia, preventing it from reaching the muscles and nerves." She spoke with an almost clinical detachment, like she was reading directly from a medical encyclopedia. "If it's not treated, it can develop complications, including nerve damage, tissue necrosis... and in some cases, kidney failure."

"Kidney failure?" he echoed weakly.

Nellie nodded, her eyes dull and listless. "If I'm trapped here for too long, just freeing me too quickly might cause the built-up fluids to move too rapidly into other systems, and result in renal failure."

As he listened to the young nurse coolly describing what was practically her own death sentence, Mulcahy found himself beginning to panic. "What can I do, Nellie?" he pleaded. "Tell me what to do!"

"There's nothing you can do," she said hollowly. "All we can do is wait."

He took off his glasses and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I feel so useless," he confessed, his voice wavering.

"It's okay, Father," she murmured.

A bitter laugh escaped him. "I'm supposed to be comforting you, not the other way around," he said wryly, replacing his glasses.

"You..." She cleared her throat and tried again. "You could hold my hand."

Mulcahy took her cold, clammy hand in his and squeezed it tightly. A silence settled between them, broken only by the unrelenting rain. He found himself wondering why it was taking the others so long to get there. He certainly hoped it wasn't because Sister Theresa and the orphans had run into trouble along the way. If they had, he realized in dismay, the 4077th would have no way of knowing what had happened to them. Everything depended on that truck reaching camp safely.

When Nellie spoke again, her voice was very small. "I'm afraid."

"Shhh," he soothed, trying to ignore his own fears. "It'll be all right. They'll come for us."

"It's not just that." She heaved a shaky sigh. "I'm afraid that... that I'll never see Danny again. That I've already lost him." Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked rapidly to dispel them. "With him gone... I'd be all alone."

He gave her hand another squeeze. "You're _never_ truly alone, Nellie," he told her earnestly.

But the girl was already shaking her head. "Yes, I am," she said, her voice becoming increasingly unsteady. "I _am_ alone. I've _always_ been alone." She shut her eyes tightly, gritting her teeth. "And it makes me so _angry._"

"Why? Why does it make you angry?"

"Because it's _unfair_, that's why!" she nearly shouted, startling the priest. "Why does it have to be _me?_ Why can't it be someone else?" She gave a sniff. "For as long as I can remember, I've always had to be strong, and mature, and dependable. I could never ask anyone for help, or to be taken care of. I've never had _anyone_ to take care of me. And it's not... _fair._"

She took a deep, shuddering breath which closely resembled a sob. "And I _thought_... that I'd finally found someone who would... _save_ me from having to be so strong all the time. Someone who would take care of _me_ for a change." She shook her head again in despair. "But he doesn't care. He doesn't care at all."

She didn't have to say his name. They both knew who she meant.

"I'm still alone," she said, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Oh, God, I'm so alone."

Mulcahy leaned down and gathered Nellie into his arms, holding her tightly as she heaved agonized sobs into his shoulder. It was difficult to see his friend like this, but he knew she had to let it out. She'd kept her feelings bottled up for far too long, and she had finally reached her breaking point. So he simply held her and let her cry her heart out, ignoring the pain in his own. _There is a time to weep, and a time to laugh,_ he thought, his own eyes welling with tears.

"I'm sorry," she choked out, her words muffled by his jacket.

"Nellie," he sighed. "It's hardly a sin to cry."

She sniffed. "I know," she admitted. "But I still hate it. It makes me feel so..."

"Human?" She nodded against him. "And what's so terrible about that?" he asked gently. "So you're not made of stone. That's nothing to be ashamed of. You can't carry the weight of the entire world on your shoulders and expect to remain unaffected. _No one_ is that strong. Not even you, Miss Malone."

She pulled away, and though her face was white and moist with tears and perspiration, Mulcahy was relieved to see a tiny spark of life returning to her eyes. "Father," she said with a hint of a smile, "would you be offended if I said you were the most adorable clergyman I've ever known?"

Mulcahy returned her smile. "I'd have to question your sanity, but no, I wouldn't be offended."

"Good." With his assistance, she leaned slowly back against the pillows, her brow contracting in pain. "Would you do something for me, Father?"

"Of course, anything," he said at once.

She bit her lip before replying. "If I... That is, if... something happens, or... or if they don't make it in time—"

He cut her off instantly. "Don't talk like that, Nellie," he said, his voice low but firm. "You _mustn't_ give up hope. They'll come."

"And if they don't?"

"Nellie—"

She laid a hand on his wrist, and her fingers were like ice. "I don't want to die, Father," she said shakily. "And I'm really... _really_ hoping it won't come to that. But... in case it does... I don't want to waste my last moments arguing with you." He sighed in vexation. "Please," she beseeched, her feeble grip tightening. "Please do this, for me."

"Oh, Nellie..." He swallowed. "All right."

Her hand fell away, and she closed her eyes. For several seconds, she breathed in and out through her nose, as if trying to conserve her strength. "Will you tell Hawkeye... that I wasn't really upset when he tried to hit on me?" she asked, her voice noticeably fainter. "I actually... thought it was kind of funny."

Mulcahy wasn't sure what to say to this. "I'll... make sure he knows," he finally said, nonplussed.

"Good." She winced. "And tell B.J. I said thank you... for always treating me like a person. Even when everyone else was too busy being shocked at finding out... that I was actually a woman." She smiled weakly. "Other than you, I mean."

"Of course," he replied, smiling despite himself.

"And make sure to tell Major Houlihan... that I'm sorry for whistling in O.R. all the time. I know how much it drove her crazy." Mulcahy realized with a sick feeling that Nellie was already speaking in the past tense. "And tell Kellye that... that she's the catch of a lifetime, and that she shouldn't be discouraged just because one man is too blind to see it. And thank Colonel Potter... for being so kind to me... and for letting me brush Sophie."

"I will," he promised, blinking back tears.

"And... And tell Max... that he's completely wonderful... and that it's high time he started believing it."

Mulcahy didn't know how much more of this he could take.

"And tell Charles..." She wiped at her cheeks and started again. "Tell Charles that he can have all my books. I know he's coveted them since the day I arrived. And he's the only person who would read them, anyway."

She choked back a sudden sob. "Tell him that I forgive him. Whatever his reasons for... for everything... I forgive him, anyway, and I... I..." Her tears were falling freely now. "I love him. God, I _love_ him. I love him so much, and I never even told him. And now... Now it's too late."

"It's _not_ too late," Mulcahy said forcefully, gripping her hand tightly in his. "Because you're going to tell him in person."

Nellie shook her head miserably. "It doesn't matter," she sobbed. "He doesn't care about me. He never did."

As she continued to weep inconsolably, Mulcahy could only hold her hand, and pray to God that Charles Emerson Winchester would prove her wrong.

* * *

A/N: This story is going to kill me. That is, if my readers don't.

Sorry this chapter wasn't quite as long as the last few. It was a heck of a lot more intense, though. Seriously, you guys, this is officially the most nerve-wracking thing I've ever written. Don't expect that to let up any time soon, either. I know it doesn't look good now, but please believe me when I say it actually _does_ have a happy ending. You'll have to take my word for it.

Oh, and do leave a review, please. Reviews soothe this writer's frazzled nerves.

-Octopus


	24. Live, That's an Order

A/N: Here I am! See, I told you I wouldn't leave you hanging for too long. Thanks for not killing me, by the way. I suppose that would have been somewhat counter-productive. And thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to my awesome beta reader, **blown-transistor**, for all her help. Also, I'm sorry for making so many of my readers cry! It's kind of scary, as a writer, to know that you have the power to do that. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I'm glad that people like my writing enough to become emotionally invested in it, but at the same time, I certainly don't enjoy torturing my readers. So I guess I'll stop torturing you now and let you read the next chapter.

This is the mother of all chapters, people.

Disclaimer: _M*A*S*H_ isn't mine. Nor are its characters. Even Nellie doesn't really feel like my creation anymore. At this point, she belongs to the 4077th.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twenty-Four: Live, That's an Order

Klinger knew that Major Winchester was under an immense amount of stress. He understood perfectly, and he had a great deal of empathy for the man.

All the same, if he didn't shut his pie-hole, Klinger was going to dump him at the side of the road and drive off without him.

To be fair, Winchester had good reason to be emotional. So far, this rescue mission wasn't exactly going as smoothly as planned. Twice already they had been unavoidably delayed: first to give directions to an American unit trying to find the main road to Seoul, and then to help a family of locals, whose wagon had gotten stuck in the mud, obstructing their path. He supposed they should be thankful that they hadn't run into any enemy troops; he didn't think it was possible to hide in a vehicle with gargantuan red crosses painted all over it.

With every interruption, though, Klinger could see the major becoming more and more agitated. He knew it was only a matter of time before his patience ran out. Or his sanity. Whichever came first.

Either way, it wasn't going to be pretty.

"Can't you make this heap of junk go any faster?" Winchester demanded, for about the fiftieth time since they'd turned onto this narrow side road.

Klinger winced as the battle-worn Dodge WC-54 ambulance dipped briefly into a crater-like hollow, only to scrape its undercarriage on the way out. "Believe me, Major, I'd like to, but the pot holes on this road are a nightmare! We'll all be lucky if we don't need kidney transplants by the time we get there!"

"Well, then, drive around them, for pity's sake! You're hitting every single one!"

The corporal gritted his teeth. "Sir," he said slowly, "if I slowed down to avoid them, it would just take us that much longer to reach the orphanage. Is that really what you want?"

Winchester didn't answer directly. Instead, he shifted restlessly in the passenger seat, scowling out the window at the lashing rain. "Are you sure this is the quickest route?" he asked with maddening persistence, apparently having forgotten that he was the one who had insisted that Klinger should be the one to drive. "We seem to be taking forever." Suddenly he squinted out the window. "That tree looks suspiciously familiar," he said accusingly. "Klinger, tell me we're not driving in circles!"

Klinger slammed his fist against the steering wheel, causing Winchester, as well as the two corpsmen in the rear of the vehicle, to look at him in surprise. "Look, Major," he snapped. "I know that to you, I'm just a big idiot. But I _do_ know what I'm doing. I'm not about to get us lost. Not when the stakes are this high."

Winchester opened his mouth, but he fixed him with a look that could have peeled paint. "You asked me to drive. So _let me drive._"

He turned his attention back to the road. There was a long, awkward silence, relieved only by the thump of the windshield wipers and the drumming of the rain on the roof of the ambulance.

"I'm sorry," Winchester said at length.

The clerk sighed heavily. "Forget it."

But the surgeon was shaking his head. "It's not that I doubt your ability to get us there, Klinger," he continued, his voice low. "Truth be told, you have already proven your... competence, and your reliability."

Later, when Klinger was in a calmer frame of mind, he would be somewhat startled to realize that Winchester had actually complimented him. And he wasn't even being held at gunpoint.

"It's just that..." He passed a hand over his haggard face. "Every second we lose... is one less second that Malone might have left."

Klinger swallowed. The fact was, he had been consciously trying his best to keep his mind focused on driving, and not on what might await them at the orphanage. Every time he allowed himself to think about Nellie, trapped and in pain, while live shells dropped around her and Father Mulcahy, he felt his palms grow moist and his pulse begin to race. It was a terrible sensation, not knowing whether his friends, his _family_, were alive or dead. And there was no way of knowing until they got there.

"I can't lose her," Winchester suddenly murmured, seemingly to himself. "I can't. Not after all that's happened."

The Lebanese felt something tighten in his chest. Regardless of the major's recent behavior, it was painfully obvious that he still cared for Nellie — possibly even more than Klinger ever had.

"She's going to be all right," he forced himself to reply. He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince, Winchester or himself.

"And if she isn't?" the other man whispered. "What then?"

Klinger declined to answer. He had no idea what to say.

As they continued to head north, the weather continued to worsen. Before long, Klinger was obliged to drive on the edge of the road, to avoid getting stuck in the rain-filled ruts. He knew they had to be close, but he hadn't heard any shellfire. That, at least, was a good sign; it meant that the storm had driven the enemy out of that particular area. At last, this excursion seemed more like a legitimate rescue operation, and a little less like a suicide mission.

Finally, the densely wooded mountains gave way to a flatter terrain, and they could see the evidence of the recent shelling. The ground was riddled with blast craters, and the trees that sparsely decorated the landscape were either missing limbs or had been reduced to smoldering cinders. And then, quite unexpectedly, the orphanage came into view.

Or rather, what used to be the orphanage.

An involuntary groan of dismay escaped Klinger's lips as he caught sight of the ravaged building. What was once a home and a schoolroom for over a dozen children was now just a pile of rain-soaked rubble. Only a single corner of the roof remained standing, and it seemed ready to collapse at any moment. There was no sign of the jeep that Nellie and Mulcahy had arrived in; presumably, it had been buried in the debris.

Winchester was already out of the ambulance before it had even come to a complete halt. Hastily, Klinger switched off the engine and clambered out of the vehicle, the corpsmen following close behind him. As they struggled to catch up to the major, who was scrambling frantically over the rubble toward what was left of the orphanage, an overwhelming sense of dread suddenly came over Klinger. He realized, with no small amount of shame, that part of him didn't want to venture into the ruined building, because he was afraid of what awaited them inside. He tried to shake the feeling off, but it held him tenaciously in its grip.

What if Nellie _was_ dead? He didn't know what he would do. He couldn't even bear to think of it.

Trying his best to ignore his trepidation, Klinger forced himself to double his pace, until at last he found himself beside the towering form of the major, who had found an opening in the partially collapsed building: a doorway that had by pure chance escaped destruction. Together, they peered inside, squinting into the gloom.

Klinger swallowed hard. "Father?" he called.

There was a faint gasp within. "Klinger! Is that you? Oh, thank the Lord."

They darted inside, following the sound of Mulcahy's quavering voice. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Klinger saw the priest kneeling on the ground, his fatigues torn and filthy, his spectacles smudged, and his face caked with dried blood from a cut on his forehead.

Next to him, lying on her back, was Nellie. Her left leg was wedged under an enormous wooden beam the size of a large tree trunk, and her eyes were closed.

Klinger's breath caught in his throat. "Is she...?"

"Still conscious," Mulcahy replied.

He exhaled in relief. Pushing past him, Winchester rushed forward and dropped to his knees beside Nellie, taking her hand in his. "Malone?" he asked softly. "Malone, can you hear me?"

As Klinger watched, the girl's eyes fluttered open. She was alarmingly pale, and her skin was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration, but when her gaze lighted on Winchester, she gave him the most radiant smile Klinger had ever seen.

"You came," she said weakly.

"Yes, I'm here," he murmured, tenderly brushing her tangled red hair out of her face. "I'm right here." He set down the medic bag which was slung over his shoulder and pulled out a syringe and a vial of morphine. After filling the syringe and tapping out the air bubbles, he carefully inserted the needle into Nellie's arm. Then he twisted around to address the corpsmen, who stood stooping in the doorway. "Let's get this off of her," he said, gesturing to the beam.

As he rose to his feet, Nellie became agitated, as if afraid he was leaving her. "Charles," she whimpered, clutching feebly at his trouser leg.

"Shhh, it's all right," he soothed, bending down to reassure her. "It's all right, darling. I'm not going anywhere. _Help me_, for God's sake!"

This last sentence was directed at the corpsmen, who quickly snapped to attention and came forward, crowding together in the small space. The five men took up positions around the fallen beam, and on Winchester's count of three, they strained to lift the massive weight. Klinger felt it give, just a fraction. Another count of three, and it shifted a little more, causing dust to float down on their heads from above. Suddenly, he found himself praying to whoever might be listening that the sagging roof didn't come crashing down around them.

On the third try, the men succeeded in lifting the beam off the ground, and together they managed to move it clear of Nellie's leg. Quickly, they set it down, and not a moment too soon; Klinger's muscles were trembling from the effort.

After ordering the corpsmen to wait outside, Winchester knelt beside Nellie again. Her eyes were tightly shut, and she was breathing shallowly. "Malone," he said, his voice far gentler than Klinger had ever heard it. "I need to examine your leg. It's going to hurt."

She nodded her understanding, in too much pain to speak.

He turned to Mulcahy. "Stay with her, Father. Try to distract her."

"I'll do my best, Major."

"Max." It took a second or two for Klinger to realize Winchester was speaking to him. "Do you have a pocket knife?"

He dug around in his pockets. "Right here."

Winchester took the knife and opened it, inspecting the blade. As Klinger crouched down next to him, Nellie seemed to notice his presence for the first time. "Hi, Max," she whispered.

His throat closed up. "Hey, kid," he said tightly. "You hang in there, okay?"

He watched as Winchester swiftly cut away at the fabric of her trousers, until he had exposed her bare leg. It was a sickly shade of yellow, especially around the thigh, and the skin was swollen and strangely shiny. Tentatively, he applied a slight amount of pressure, and Nellie cried out. The morphine didn't seem to have helped at all. As Mulcahy did his best to distract her from the pain, the surgeon continued to palpate the injured leg, until at last he sat back on his heels.

"It's as I thought," he muttered direly. "Closed fracture of the femur. The pain seems to be general, not confined to one location. And her tissues are becoming ischemic."

"What does that mean?" Klinger asked.

Winchester's expression was grim. "It means she's got compartment syndrome."

"Oh, God." The corporal had been around injured people long enough to know what that meant. "What do we do?"

"We..." Winchester drew in a shaky breath. "_I_ need to relieve the pressure somehow. If I don't do it now, she could lose her leg. She could even go into shock."

That was all Klinger needed to hear. "Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Do it!"

But the major was shaking his head in frustration. "Look around you, Max," he said, his voice bordering on desperate. "This is not the operating room. The light in here is atrocious, the conditions are far from sterile, and I don't even have the proper instruments. All I have is _this!_" He held the pocket knife frantically in the air.

Suddenly Nellie spoke, albeit very faintly. "Charles..."

"Major," Mulcahy prompted urgently.

Winchester was at her side in an instant, holding her hand between both of his. "Yes, Malone," he said softly. "I'm here."

She swallowed weakly. "Do... what you have to do," she rasped.

"I..." He nodded, his eyes filling with tears. Quickly, he blinked them back. Working with a smooth, swift professionalism, he pulled a bottle of ethyl alcohol from the medic bag and proceeded to sterilize first his hands, and then Nellie's leg, as well as Klinger's pocket knife. Then he took out a gauze bandage and handed it to Mulcahy.

"Put this between her teeth, Father," he said hoarsely. "And both of you... hold her down."

Klinger had been around blood and gore and human suffering for longer than he cared to think about. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Winchester cutting into Nellie's leg. As the blade sank into her skin, he felt his stomach give a violent lurch. Forcing himself to focus on his task, he held her firmly by the ankles to keep her from twisting and thrashing about, while trying in vain to block out her agonized screams. He continued to watch, horrified but unable to look away or even blink, as the major made an incision down the length of the girl's thigh, all the way through to the fibrous connective tissue. As the muscle underneath began to bulge and expand through the skin, Klinger had to turn away to keep from being sick.

And then, quite abruptly, Nellie ceased struggling and went completely limp. Klinger looked up in alarm, fearing the worst. "Father?"

"She's passed out," Mulcahy answered, releasing his grip on her shoulders. "The pain was too much for her."

"It's just as well," said Winchester in a hollow monotone. "It's better that she remains unconscious for the journey back to camp."

"Will she be okay?" Klinger asked him.

Soaking a large sterile gauze pad in alcohol, Winchester placed it over the open wound. Finally he sat back, passing a bloodied hand across his brow. His face was almost as white as Nellie's.

"She'll still need surgery to set the fracture," he replied, sounding indescribably drained. "That needs to be done in the O.R. But first we need to get there." He held his hand against Nellie's cheek, stroking it gently with his thumb. "She's not out of danger yet."

In the entire time Klinger had known the man, he had never seen Winchester look more terrified or desperate — not even when they were stranded together with those Greek soldiers in the middle of a windstorm.

Slowly, he reached out and laid a hand on the Bostonian's shoulder. "If anyone can get her through this, Major," he said in a low voice, "it's you."

* * *

Mulcahy felt like he was dreaming. It was so strange to think that he had had toast and coffee in the mess tent with Nellie Malone that same morning, and now here she was, mere hours later, lying unconscious on a litter with her leg flayed open. It just didn't seem real.

Even as the corpsmen laid her with great care on a stretcher from the ambulance and carried her out of the ruined orphanage, the priest found himself following in a daze, putting one foot mindlessly in front of the other. It wasn't until he had tried to climb into the rear of the ambulance and had to be assisted by Major Winchester that he realized he was bleeding from a rather large gash on his forehead. He couldn't even recall being injured.

As the vehicle bounced and splashed along the muddy, winding road, he sat on one of the fold-out benches in the back next one of the corpsmen, while the other occupied the passenger seat beside Klinger. Nellie's leg was in a splint, which would help to keep it immobilized, but that didn't stop Klinger from cringing every time they rode over a bump or into a pot hole.

Amazingly, Winchester didn't even seem to notice. Having declined all invitations to sit down, the surgeon was stooped over Nellie's litter, since he was far too tall to stand upright. He was gripping her hand tightly in his and gazing down into her face with an intensity that was almost unsettling — as if he were trying to heal her through the sheer force of his willpower.

As the corpsman beside him — Levine, if he remembered correctly — saw to the cut on his head, the chaplain looked down at his own filthy hands which rested limply in his lap. If his mind wasn't such a muddled mess from his injury, he would have liked to have offered some words of comfort to Winchester, but he suspected that the man wouldn't have heard him anyway. So instead, he prayed. God knew what he wanted to say, even if he didn't have the words.

Still, he wished there was something more concrete he could do. He never could help feeling like a third wheel in situations like this. Everyone else at the 4077th — and everyone else in the entire U.S. Army, for that matter — always seemed to know exactly what to do. They had all been given very specialized training in their own particular fields, and in times of crisis, they always had that knowledge to fall back on. But Mulcahy had received none of that training. More often than not, he found himself a helpless spectator, while others were forced to compensate for his failings.

He knew that, if they were aware of his feelings of inadequacy, his friends would assure him that this was not the case at all. And he loved them for it. But he doubted that they would ever be able to convince him otherwise.

Even now, as Winchester continued to monitor Nellie's vital signs, while Klinger did his best to get them all back to camp in one piece, Mulcahy felt like he was simply taking up space. In fact, the only reason his own services would actually be needed was if, God forbid, the girl's condition took a turn for the worse, and he was fervently hoping it wouldn't come to that.

If given the choice, he would much rather be useless.

Suddenly Mulcahy was jolted out of his reverie as the ambulance went over an especially large pot hole, jostling everyone in their places. "Sorry," Klinger called, wincing.

"Careful, Klinger," said the corpsman beside Mulcahy. "Precious cargo, you know?"

"I know, I know!"

The priest looked over at Levine with some surprise. To his knowledge, none of the enlisted men knew Nellie particularly well; aside from Klinger, of course. Still, he supposed the diminutive redhead had made an impact, to varying degrees, on the entire 4077th. In spite of her quiet, somewhat bookish nature, she was respected by her camp. Even loved.

If anything happened to her...

"Oh, no," croaked Winchester. "Oh, God, no."

Mulcahy looked up sharply. "What is it?" he asked in alarm. "What's wrong?"

The major was taking Nellie's pulse, his face a mask of fear. "Her pulse," he said hoarsely. "It's thready and rapid, her breathing has all but stopped, and... her lips are turning blue." He swallowed. "She's going into shock."

The priest watched as Winchester swiftly tore open the front of Nellie's field jacket, buttons flying everywhere. Levine stood, swaying from the motion of the vehicle, and moved to help the surgeon loosen her clothing and free her airway. As they fitted an oxygen mask over her mouth, Mulcahy couldn't help but notice the way her freckles stood out against her ashen skin.

_This isn't happening,_ he thought with a growing sense of unreality.

Winchester tried to check her pulse again, but his hands were trembling uncontrollably. He ripped off her glasses and peeled one of her eyes open. He swore once, under his breath.

And then, all at once, he seemed to lose his mind.

"No!" he suddenly shouted, causing Mulcahy to flinch. "Malone! Hold on, do you hear me? Hold on!" He reached out and seized both of her shoulders. "Now you listen to me," he hissed furiously. "You've got to fight. Do you understand? You do _not_ have my permission to give up."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mulcahy saw Klinger wipe roughly at his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"Don't do this to me," Winchester raged at the unconscious girl. "Don't you _dare_ do this to me, Malone. I won't stand for it."

"Major," the corpsman said softly, "we're losing her."

He shook his head fiercely. "No. No, we're not. She'd never let that happen. She's far too stubborn."

Mulcahy rose to his feet, his head swimming. "Charles." He put a hand on the major's arm, and he angrily shrugged it off. "Charles, it may be time... for you to let her go."

"Get away from me!" he shouted, his voice cracking. He released Nellie's shoulders and cupped her deathly pale face in his shaking hands. "Come on, Malone," he pleaded desperately. "Come on, damn it, you can do this."

"I can't find a pulse," said Levine.

A choking sob escaped Winchester. "I'm so sorry," he said, his voice ragged and broken. "God, I am _so_ sorry. This is all my fault. All of it." Tears spilled over his cheeks as he leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead. "I promise, I will spend the remainder of my life making it up to you. Just... don't leave me. Please."

There was a silence, punctuated only by the man's quiet weeping.

"I think she must have heard you," Levine said, almost in disbelief. "I'm getting a pulse again."

"Good girl," Winchester murmured, stroking her hair. "Keep it up. Stay with me."

Mulcahy realized he had been holding his breath. Slowly, he let it out, feeling dizzy and faint and slightly nauseous. As he made his way over to the bench and sat down heavily, he took off his smudged glasses and rubbed at his eyes, only to find that his own cheeks were wet.

The priest watched through blurred vision as Winchester, hanging on the last of his frayed nerves, clung tenaciously to Nellie's hand, speaking to her under his breath. It was so like the major, Mulcahy thought abstractedly, to refuse to accept the possibility of losing her. When he had first been assigned to the 4077th on a permanent basis, he had refused to accept it. He had challenged the colonel's orders, undermined his authority, and exploited every opportunity to get himself transferred elsewhere. Even after he had finally given up on actively trying to leave, he made it no secret that he was in Korea under protest.

And when one of his patients' vital signs suddenly began to plummet, he wouldn't accept that, either. On the contrary, he became positively incensed — as if personally offended at the idea of anyone having the sheer audacity to die on _his_ operating table. And that stubborn determination, misguided as it was, almost unfailingly resulted in a life being saved.

It was no wonder, then, that Winchester was being so obstinate now. If he refused to accept the death of a soldier he had never seen before in his life, he certainly wasn't going to accept the loss of someone he loved.

If he lost Nellie, Mulcahy wasn't certain that the man would ever recover.

_Please,_ he prayed silently, not bothering to hold back his tears. _Don't let her die, Lord. For this man's sake, please don't let her die._

* * *

As soon as word had spread through the camp that Mulcahy and Malone were stranded at Sister Theresa's in the middle of an air raid, and that Malone's leg was pinned under a heavy object, Hawkeye immediately sprang into action. He knew that crush injuries were notorious for developing potentially fatal complications, and that the longer the victim was trapped, the smaller the chance of recovery. It was imperative that surgery should be performed at the earliest possible opportunity.

And so, cutting his shower short, he made a bee-line for the main hospital building — thankfully remembering to put on clothes first.

When he burst into Pre-Op, he found that B.J. was already there in his scrubs, preparing for surgery. It seemed that his best friend was also anticipating severe injuries. Great minds really did think alike.

The blond man shrugged in response to his raised eyebrows. "No harm in being prepared," he said, by way of explanation.

"That's what I always say," Hawkeye replied, walking over to the washing station. "Actually, I never say that. But it always sounds good when other people say it." He gave B.J. a glance. "So who gets to do the honors?"

"Beats me."

"You want to flip a coin?"

B.J. shook his head. "You flip it. I'm already sterile."

"I don't have a coin."

"Then why'd you suggest it?" B.J. asked, exasperated.

It was Hawkeye's turn to shrug. "I guess it was just another one of those things that sound good at the time," he said.

B.J. sighed and shook his head. "I suppose it doesn't really matter which one of us operates," he said as he pulled on a surgical gown. "As long as it isn't Charles."

Again, it was as if he'd read Hawkeye's mind. The other reason for his haste in getting ready for surgery as soon as possible was that when the ambulance arrived, Charles would almost certainly be on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown. And, if Hawkeye knew the man at all, he would also insist on performing the operation himself. And in his current emotional state, the O.R. was the last place on earth he should be allowed. Except maybe the cockpit of an H-13 Sioux helicopter. Or, as in Frank Burns's case, a Sherman tank.

"He's not going to like it," Hawkeye said in a low voice.

"Nope. He's not. In fact, he'll probably hate us for it." B.J. finished tying the strings of his gown behind his back. "Luckily, it won't make much of a difference, because he already hates us."

As Hawkeye changed out of his wrinkled fatigues and into a pair of clean scrubs, a thought occurred to him. "Does Margaret know yet?" he asked.

B.J. nodded soberly. "She was the one who told me."

"How's she taking it?"

His friend shot him a look, as if to say, _What do you think?_ But he answered anyway: "About as well as a mother bear whose cub has just been snatched by a passing poacher. You know how protective she is of her nurses."

Hawkeye gave a knowing grunt as he began washing his hands and forearms. He would never forget the time that Nurse Bigelow had been injured when the water tower had collapsed. Margaret had been absolutely hysterical. It was as if she held herself personally accountable for every bit of bad luck that befell her nurses. God only knew what it must be like for Colonel Potter, who regarded his entire unit as his extended family.

"It doesn't seem fair, does it?" B.J. murmured, almost to himself. "Red's already been through hell. First she gets stranded in the jungle with Charles, who's been treating her like chopped liver, and then her brother gets declared M.I.A., and now _this_. It's just so... wrong."

Hawkeye was silent. He sensed a rant coming on.

"She's not even supposed to be here," B.J. went on, frustrated. "She should be back in San Francisco, working in that cushy hospital. Riding the streetcar down Market Street. Watching the sea lions on Pier 39." Hawkeye wasn't sure who he was talking about at this point — Malone, or himself.

"What was she thinking?" he asked indignantly. "Following her brother to Korea? Into the middle of a war-zone?" He shook his head. "How could she be so irresponsible?"

Hawkeye finished scrubbing and shut off the faucet with his elbow. "She loves him, Beej," he said quietly. "Love makes people do all sorts of irresponsible things."

He knew B.J. couldn't argue with that point. Love had made him place a phone call across the Pacific Ocean just to ask his wife if she still needed him.

The door to the operating room swung open, and Margaret stormed in, already in gown, mask, and gloves. "What is taking them so long?" she demanded. "They should be here by now!"

"They've probably been delayed by the storm," Hawkeye replied, towelling his hands dry. "It's really coming down out there."

The head nurse paced restlessly back and forth, like a caged animal, her fists clenched at her sides. "Damn that Klinger," she growled irritably. "If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times, he takes those roads _way_ too slowly! By the time they get here, the war will be over!"

Her voice had taken on a shrill quality that never failed to give Hawkeye a headache. "They'll be here," he told her. "Stop pacing already. You're making my eye twitch."

Abruptly, she stopped, which surprised him; she never usually listened to him. "What if..." She hesitated, which was also unlike her. "What if they're taking their time because... because it's already too late?"

"Come on, Margaret," said B.J. in a low voice. "There's no point in assuming the worst."

She shook her head. Above her mask, her eyes were troubled. "I should never have let her go," she murmured.

Hawkeye suppressed a sigh. "It was a routine trip to the orphanage, Margaret. Nobody could have predicted that this would happen."

"This is Korea!" she fired back. "When _doesn't_ this sort of thing happen?" She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "Why didn't Father Mulcahy ask me instead? I would've gone with him."

"Because you were working in Post-Op with me at the time," B.J. answered. Margaret rolled her eyes impatiently. "Besides, if you had gone, then _you'd_ be the one with the broken leg."

"Better me than Malone," she snapped. Her voice shook slightly, betraying her true emotions.

Hawkeye started to put a hand on her shoulder, then remembered he was sterile. "Margaret..." He stepped close to her. "This isn't your fault," he said softly. "You can't be there to protect your nurses all the time."

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with moisture. "No," she said tightly. "But I can try."

There was a sudden, frenzied honking in the compound. "They're here," said B.J.

They stood silently, listening to the commotion and the raised voices outside. Soon the sounds grew closer, until Hawkeye could hear Klinger's voice, shouting above the din.

"Get her inside, quick," he ordered, with considerably more authority than he actually wielded. "Come on, come on! Let's get the lead out!"

The door connecting Pre-Op to the compound banged open, and the clerk came in facing backward, followed by a pair of corpsmen carrying Malone on a stretcher. The red-haired nurse was unconscious, an oxygen mask fitted over her pale face. The left leg of her trousers was cut away, blood seeping through a gauze bandage on her thigh.

Margaret rushed forward. "How is she?" she asked urgently.

Klinger gave her a dark, despairing look. "Not good," he said quietly.

The door opened again, and Charles stepped inside, accompanied by Father Mulcahy and a gaggle of medics. If it was possible, he looked even worse than Malone. His face was gray and haggard, and there was a wildness in his eyes that Hawkeye found more than a little disturbing.

"Get her ready for surgery," he told the medics. "Make sure she's fully under." His gaze fell on the head nurse. "Margaret, prepare two units of whole blood." He stopped the corpsmen carrying the stretcher, and inspected Malone's dog tags. "AB negative. I'll join you as soon as I've finished scrubbing."

Margaret gave him a worried glance, but did as she was told. As the corpsmen carried Malone into the operating room, Charles began throwing off his soaked clothes and pulling on his scrubs.

"Not so fast, pal," said Hawkeye, causing him to look up at him sharply. "I'll take it from here."

Charles regarded him incredulously. "Surely you jest."

"I'm not really in a jesting mood." He donned his surgical gown and stepped closer to the major. "Look at you, Charles. You're a wreck. You're in no condition to perform surgery."

The look the Bostonian gave him was downright murderous. "Need I remind you," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "that I am the ranking officer here?"

"And need I remind _you_ that I am the chief surgeon?" Hawkeye retorted, refusing to be intimidated. "Round these parts, what I say goes. And I say you are not operating on Malone."

For a moment, Charles was speechless. "You can't do that," he said at last.

"I can, and I will. It's for your own good. And for hers."

The taller man matched Hawkeye's challenging gaze. "O'Reilly," he said simply.

He blinked. "What?"

"When Radar O'Reilly was injured, you were the one who operated on him," Charles continued. "You held yourself responsible for what had happened to the lad. That is why you insisted on performing the surgery yourself. You refused to let anyone else near him."

Hawkeye felt his chest constrict at the unwelcome memory. The mental image of Radar lying on that operating table, his shoulder blown open, was one that would always haunt him.

Charles pointed a finger at the door to the O.R. "Malone is in that room right now because of me," he said, his eyes betraying his anguish. "Surely you, of all people, can understand why it is _imperative_ that I should be the one to operate on her." He swallowed hard. "I _need_ to do this, Pierce. Do not make me beg."

Hawkeye sighed heavily. "Jesus, Charles..."

Mulcahy, who had been silent during this exchange, suddenly stepped forward, his hand gingerly cradling his head. "Gentlemen," he said in a beseeching voice. "Please, stop arguing. There isn't a moment to waste!"

Hawkeye gave Charles a hard, scrutinizing look. "Damn it," he said at last. "All right. Scrub up." Charles nodded, moving swiftly to the washing station. "But I'm assisting you," he told him firmly. "And I'll be watching you like a _hawk_."

As he put on his mask, cap, and gloves, B.J. glanced over at him. "Let me know if you need help," he said.

From his carefully even tone, Hawkeye could guess what his friend meant. _In other words,_ he thought, _if Charles needs to be restrained._

"Will do," he replied quietly.

The air in the operating room was thick and heavy. Hardly a word was spoken. The only sounds were the clink of instruments, and the rain drumming on the tin roof.

Hawkeye looked on as Charles took his scalpel and deepened the incision he had made earlier in the patient's leg — he couldn't even think of her as Malone. The major's hands were steady, but his forehead was beaded with perspiration. Beside him, Klinger reached up with a sponge and dabbed it away.

As the wickedly sharp implement sliced through muscle and connective tissue, Hawkeye spotted the break: a shaft fracture midway down the length of the femur. There was also considerable damage to the intermediate femoral nerves. As he went to work on controlling the bleeding, Charles prepared to set the break.

"Blood pressure?" he asked.

"Eighty-five over sixty," said Margaret. "Still low, but rising. And her color is returning to normal."

"She's coming out of it," murmured Hawkeye. "That a girl."

Charles exhaled, his eyes slipping shut in pure relief. Then he collected himself and resumed setting the fracture with a Steinmann pin. As he worked, Margaret continued to update them on the patient's vital signs. She was becoming more stable by the minute.

At last, they were ready to close. Hawkeye passed Charles the needle, and he watched as the man threaded the silk sutures through the patient's skin and pulled the incision taut, taking infinite pains to be as meticulous as possible. There would still be a scar, no doubt. But she would be all right.

When they finally stepped back, allowing the medics to take her away and put her leg in a cast, Hawkeye stripped off his bloodied gloves and tossed them on the floor. "Excellently done, Doctor," he told Charles with utter sincerity, tugging down his face mask. "I never should have doubted you."

The Bostonian nodded, very formally. "Thank you, Pierce."

And then he collapsed against the operating table.

Klinger grabbed him by the arm and tried to hold him up, but Charles was a much larger man than the corporal. Hawkeye moved to take his other arm, and together they dragged him out of the operating room, Margaret following close behind.

Gently, they eased him down onto the bench in the changing room. "What's wrong with him?" asked Klinger.

"He's dehydrated," Hawkeye replied, taking in the major's sunken eyes and slack, pale skin. "Not to mention exhausted." He hit the wall with his fist. "That idiot. If I'd known he was this bad, I'd never have let him operate."

"They're both idiots," Margaret said wryly. "That's why they're perfect for each other."

"I _can_ hear you," Charles slurred in a dull voice.

Hawkeye shook his head in exasperation. "Come on, idiot," he said with a touch of fondness as they hauled him upright. "Let's get some fluids into you."

* * *

The post-operative ward was quiet and nearly empty. Only two wounded soldiers occupied the beds, and both were sleeping soundly. However, the calm was not destined to last; the children from the orphanage would need a place to stay for the night, which meant they would soon be claiming the remaining cots in Post-Op. But for now, they were all gathered in the mess tent, being entertained by the nurses and eating the 4077th out of house and home. Not that anyone minded.

In the corner of the ward, separated by a white folding privacy screen, Fenella Malone lay in one of the hospital beds, her leg encased in a white plaster cast and tubes running from her arm. She was being given an IV drip of morphine, as well as antibiotics to prevent infection. The anaesthesia had likely worn off by now, for she slept peacefully, naturally. Her face, though still pale, was calm and serene.

Charles sat in a chair beside her bed, her small hand enveloped in his. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry, and his eyes felt raw and scratchy, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from her. He couldn't help himself. There was an irrational part of him that fully believed she would disappear the instant he looked away. So he didn't.

It was only now, after the chaos had finally dissipated and all was quiet, that he fully realized just how close he had come to losing her. There had been a moment, in the back of that ambulance, when she hadn't even had a pulse.

She'd almost died. Malone. _His_ Malone.

How many times would she have to cheat death for him to realize how much he truly needed her?

He had no idea how long he sat there, but it was dark outside when the door behind him swung open, and Klinger crept quietly inside, followed by Lieutenant Kellye. The corporal was holding a steaming tray of food in his hands.

He came forward and stood over Charles's chair. "Has she woken up at all?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Charles shook his head numbly. "Not yet." His voice sounded like he'd swallowed a chainsaw.

Klinger gazed down at the sleeping young woman for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought. "I brought you some dinner, Major," he said at length, holding out the tray. "There's potatoes, carrots, and some kind of loaf. I think it might be turkey."

The mere thought of food turned Charles's stomach. "Thank you, no," he answered, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "I haven't much of an appetite."

"Too bad," Klinger said bluntly. "I know for a fact that you haven't had a single bite in at least fifteen hours." He set the tray on the little table beside Malone's bed. "Now eat up. That's an order... sir."

Charles opened his mouth to argue, but the clerk was already in full retreat, heading for the safety of his office. Charles gave a derisive snort, scowling down at the tray of food. How utterly absurd; the idea of a corporal giving an order to a major.

Softly, Kellye cleared her throat. "Major?" She held up a slim hardcover book which had been tucked under her arm. "I thought you might like something to read. It's one of Nellie's."

He reached out unthinkingly and took it from her outstretched hand. His heart gave a sudden sharp twinge as his gaze fell on the title: _Twelfth Night_. He swallowed with some difficulty. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he managed to reply.

"No problem, sir." For a while she stood watching Malone sleep, her arms folded over her chest. Then she cleared her throat. "Umm," she began hesitantly. "The other nurses wanted me to tell you... Thank you. For saving Nellie."

Charles had no idea what to say to this. But even before he could stammer out some inept response, Kellye surprised him again by leaning down and hugging him tightly. Caught completely off guard, for a moment he simply sat there, as stiff as a board. And then, gradually, he allowed himself to relax, and accepted the gesture gratefully.

And then she pulled away with a smile. "I've got the shift in Post-Op tonight," she said. "If you need anything, I'll be just across the room."

Too tired and emotionally drained to respond, Charles gave a weak nod. Long after Kellye had left him, he stared dully down at the book in his hands, not really seeing it. At last he opened it and flipped to a page at random.

As he read the familiar words, he felt his pulse quicken. It was the first of Feste's songs, entitled "O Mistress Mine". The theme of the poem was a variation on the "Carpe diem" philosophy, which had been very popular during the time Shakespeare had written it. One line, in particular, gave special impetus to the idea of living in the moment:

_"What is love? 'Tis not hereafter,  
__Present mirth hath present laughter.  
__What's to come is still unsure."_

The meaning was clear. The future was uncertain; therefore life was to be lived in the present. Love was not something in the "hereafter", but was an act, to be _acted upon._

Charles stared at the book, stunned.

Shakespeare always did know just what to say.

"Charles..."

His heart leaped into his throat at the sudden, faint voice. He looked up to see a pair of jade green eyes watching him under heavy lids. The book fell from his lap to the floor with a rustle of paper.

"Malone," he said softly, when he could bring himself to speak. "Welcome back."

"Thank you." She smiled crookedly, and it was the most beautiful sight Charles had ever seen. "You look terrible."

A slightly hysterical laugh escaped him. "I've no doubt of it," he replied, wiping at his suddenly damp cheeks.

Weakly, she held out her arms to him. Without a word, he left his chair and gathered her carefully into an embrace. Silent tears tracked down his face as he held her in his arms, reveling in the warmth of her skin, the air moving in and out of her lungs — the sheer _life_ in her body. He couldn't get enough of it. He was addicted to her.

"Are you all right?" she whispered, her little fingers curled in his hair.

What a wonderfully absurd question. "Yes," he murmured, nuzzling the soft skin behind her ear. He felt her shiver, and it was pure heaven.

Before long, Malone's meager strength began to give out, and he was obliged to ease her back against her pillows. It was then that she noticed, seemingly for the first time, that her leg was in a cast. Her eyebrows drew together in a frown. "What's wrong with my leg?" she asked in genuine confusion.

Charles regarded her with some surprise. Didn't she remember? "It was fractured," he explained slowly. "During the attack on the orphanage. You were trapped under a beam."

She shook her head tiredly. "I know all that," she said. "I meant, why can't I feel it?"

Abruptly, Charles felt a heavy, sick sensation come over him. He slowly lowered himself onto the edge of her bed. "You..." He swallowed weakly. "You can't feel your leg?"

Malone shook her head again.

He passed a distraught hand across his face. He shouldn't have been surprised; she had sustained some serious nerve damage, after all. However, the loss of sensation was not necessarily permanent. It was even possible that the numbness she was experiencing was a residual effect of the anaesthesia.

All the same, hearing her say it was like a knife in his chest.

"I'm so sorry," he said hoarsely.

He felt Malone's hand on the side of his face, lightly stroking his cheek. "For what?" she murmured in a dreamy voice.

Charles gazed down at her, noting her flagging eyelids. She was clearly fighting sleep.

"It can wait," he forced himself to say. "You need your rest." He held her hand briefly to his lips, before placing it gently on the bedclothes. "Shut your eyes now, that's it. I'll be right here."

For a long time, he sat at her bedside, listening to the sound of her breathing. It had such a soothing effect on him that he didn't notice Colonel Potter's presence until the man was standing right over him.

"What's the word on the little lady?" he asked softly. "Has she woken up yet?"

Charles nodded. "Briefly." His throat suddenly tightened. "She said she has no sensation in her leg."

He knew Potter had heard him, but he didn't reply. Instead, he claimed the empty chair next to the bed and simply looked at him. Under the older man's sympathetic gaze, Charles felt something in him start to crumble.

"It's all my fault," he found himself whispering, unable to help himself. "I drove her to this. If I had simply told her... if I hadn't been such an utter _coward_... she would never have gone to such lengths to get away from me."

"Maybe so," said Potter, his hands clasped in his lap. "And maybe some other nurse would be lying in that bed. Or maybe even the padre. The important thing is that she's all right now. And thanks to you, she'll even get to keep her leg."

"That will be a small comfort," Charles replied bitterly, "if she is unable to use it."

"Only time will tell." Charles sighed in vexation, and the colonel laid a hand on his shoulder. "The way I see it, her life is a damned sight more important than her leg," he said quietly. "That girl is alive. If it weren't for you, she might not be. I wouldn't forget that if I were you." He gave Charles a meaningful look. "And I wouldn't waste it, either."

Then his hand fell away, and he settled back in the chair. "Now go get some rest, son," he told him firmly. "I'll let you know when she wakes up again."

Charles shook his head wearily. "I'd rather stay with her, if it's all the same."

Potter raised his eyebrows. "That was a friendly suggestion, Major," he said gruffly. "Care to make it an order?"

He opened his mouth to reply, when the door leading to the clerk's office suddenly banged open, and Danny Malone staggered in, covered in mud from head to toe, his red hair plastered to his head and his fatigues ripped in a dozen places.

"Where is she?" he demanded breathlessly. "Where's Nell?"

* * *

A/N: Aw snap. I did it again, didn't I? Well, at least it was a _good_ cliffhanger this time! Anyway, holy crapasaurus. I'm glad to have this chapter finished. During the course of writing it, I seem to have bitten my nails down to the quick.

Oh, by the way, you may have noticed the new picture ID for this story. In case you were wondering, yes, I drew it. What? I draw. Sometimes. Well, rarely. Anyway, drop me a PM if you want to see the full-sized version. The thumbnail is kind of teeny. Either way, hope you liked the latest chapter. Please leave a review, if you have the time.

-Octopus

P.S. I recently read something hilarious and indirectly _M*A*S*H_-related, and I thought I'd share it with you. I'm currently reading Bill Bryson's memoirs, _The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid_. He grew up in Iowa, and had this to say about Radar's favorite soda: "Nehi was the pop of small towns — I don't know why — and it had the intensest flavor and most vivid colors of any product yet cleared by the Food and Drug Administration for human consumption. It came in six select flavors (...) but each was so potently powerful that it made your eyes water like an untended sprinkler, and so sharply carbonated that it was like swallowing a thousand tiny razor blades. It was wonderful. (...) Grape was the one flavor that could actually make you hallucinate; I once saw to the edge of the universe while drinking grape Nehi."

I nearly died laughing while reading that. No wonder Radar loves it so much.


	25. The Spirit of a Winchester

A/N: You know who I love? You. You wonderful readers, you. I can hardly wrap my head around the response that this story has gotten. I don't think I'll ever be able to express my gratitude for your continued interest and support. You guys are so fantastic, it's unreal. Especially my awesome beta reader, **blown-transistor**, for all her help. Thanks, lady!

Know what else I love? Learning that there are people out there who truly appreciate Charles. When I started watching _M*A*S*H_ as a teenager, I couldn't help noticing the conspicuous lack of members of the Winchester fan club, as it were. And I could never understand why. To me, he seemed superior to Frank in every way: in intelligence, in humor, in surgical ability, and in simple human kindness... even if it was hidden under the persona of a total rich snob. It makes me so happy that I'm not the only one who loves that pompous, egotistical, maddening, secretly wonderful man. Speaking of whom, let's get back to him, shall we?

Disclaimer: As much as I love _M*A*S*H_, alas, I cannot claim it as mine own.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Spirit of a Winchester

_"When you love somebody, you're always in trouble. There's only two things you can do about it: either stop loving them, or love them a whole lot more." — Sherman T. Potter_

"Good God," Charles blurted, rising involuntarily to his feet. "Daniel. What on earth happened to you?"

The gangly, red-haired young man came forward into the darkened recovery ward, wobbling on his long, stick-like legs. Klinger was fast on his heels, holding out a hand to steady him, but he waved the corporal away. He resembled a rag doll that had been pulled through a clothes wringer and then left out in the rain. His boots squelched with every step he took, and as he collapsed into the chair that Colonel Potter graciously vacated for him, Charles's nose detected the faint combined odors of gunpowder, animals, and wet straw.

"It's a long... very long story, Major," he replied tiredly, his eyes glued to the sleeping form of his sister. "One that I'd prefer not to get into at the moment." He swallowed. "Klinger told me Nell's been in an accident. How is she? Will she be all right?"

Charles followed the direction of the boy's gaze. Then it took considerable effort to focus on anyone or anything else. When he replied, it was not without some difficulty. "She's suffered a broken femur, as well as some nerve damage, which... may or may not be permanent." He shook his head bleakly. "There's no way at this point to be certain."

"But she's doing okay," Klinger hastened to add, shooting Charles a brief, censorious look. Apparently he wasn't quite as eager to be the harbinger of doom. "She's just resting now. She's been through a lot."

Danny reached out and placed his hand lightly over his sister's. "Poor Ginger," he murmured. "How did it happen?"

The very last thing Charles wanted to do was give a word-for-word recounting of what had proved to be the most nightmarish day of his entire life. Thankfully, Potter seemed to sense his reluctance and spoke up. "She went along with our chaplain on a trip to the orphanage, to deliver some supplies. While they were there, the enemy decided to drop in for a little visit. They came bearing live shells."

Danny craned his neck to look up at the colonel, his green eyes wide with disbelief. "They bombed the orphanage?" he asked, aghast. "You mean, they attacked _children?_ That's barbaric!"

"Don't forget," Potter said grimly, "those children might grow up to be soldiers someday."

"Just how long are they expecting this war to last?" the boy asked, his voice laced with disgust. He shook his head, as if to collect his thoughts. "So how did Nellie...?"

Klinger stepped forward. "From what Father Mulcahy tells me," he said quietly, "they were trying to get one of the kids out, when the roof started to cave in. The kid got out okay, but Nellie wasn't so lucky. She was pinned under this huge support beam. Major Winchester had to do some pretty quick thinking to save her leg."

Noticing the confusion on Danny's face, Potter explained, "Your sister had developed compartment syndrome in her thigh. The major here had to perform an emergency fasciotomy."

"For all the good it seems to have done her," Charles muttered darkly, "I might as well have used leeches."

He felt Danny's eyes on him. "I'm sure that's not true, sir," he said in a low, even voice.

There was a short, tense silence, broken by the clearing of the colonel's throat. "Well, Private, now that all the excitement's over, why don't you go take a long, hot shower and get a bite to eat? God knows you look like you could use both. I'm sure Klinger can find you something halfway edible. Meanwhile, I'll get on the horn and let your C.O. know where you are. You've been declared missing in action, you know."

The boy seemed less than willing to comply. "Don't worry about your sister, Daniel," Charles told him. "I won't leave her side."

"Well..." He nodded, albeit reluctantly. "All right. But I want to know the second she wakes up."

Potter went back to his office, and Klinger clapped a hand on Danny's shoulder. "Come on, kid," he said, helping the exhausted young man to his feet. "Let's go get you some grub."

As they turned to leave, the clerk spotted the untouched tray on the table beside Malone's bed. "I thought I told you to eat, Major," he said sternly. "Don't make me hold you down and force-feed you."

Whether or not Klinger was bluffing was immaterial; the mere thought of such a thing was more than enough incentive to eat. Sinking back down onto the empty chair, Charles managed to choke down a few mouthfuls of food. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the queasy sensation in his stomach seemed to abate a little.

As he returned the tray to the table, Malone stirred uncomfortably in her sleep, her brow clouded with anxiety. Leaning forward in his chair, Charles stroked her forehead, smoothing the troubled lines away with his fingertips. After a moment, she seemed to relax, but he continued to caress the planes of her delicate face, marveling at the velvety softness of her skin. She gave a little sigh, and he felt his heart swell with emotion.

How had he ever managed to fool himself into thinking he didn't need her?

There was a sudden noise behind him, causing him to twist around in his chair. A small, dark head was peeking around the edge of the white privacy screen — a little girl, one of the children from Sister Theresa's orphanage. He hadn't even heard anyone come in.

The child realized she had been spotted, and started to retreat. "No, no," he said quickly, half-rising from his chair. "It's all right. You don't have to leave." He beckoned her forward. "Come here."

The girl hesitated, her eyes fixed on Malone's sleeping form. She was clutching a rather tattered doll to her chest. Slowly, she edged closer, until she reached the side of the bed. She cast a questioning glance up at Charles, her little face pinched with worry.

He realized she must be concerned for Malone. He wasn't entirely certain how to reassure her; he only knew a handful of phrases in Korean. "She's all right," he said in what he hoped were placating tones. "She's only sleeping."

She seemed to understand, or at least comprehend the general meaning behind his words. He watched as she reached out and patted Malone's hand with her tiny one. To his dismay, her lower lip began to tremble, until her dark eyes spilled over with tears.

"Oh, no," he muttered. He tried his best to comfort her, feeling hopelessly inept in the attempt. "Come, little one, it's all right. Don't cry."

Abruptly, she turned toward Charles and buried her face in his side, catching him completely by surprise. Not knowing what else to do, he scooped the girl up in his arms and set her in his lap, rocking her gently and making various shushing sounds. Incredibly, it seemed to have some sort of effect. Before long, her quiet sniffling subsided, and she dropped off to sleep in his arms. He shook his head in amazement. If he hadn't witnessed it himself, he would never have believed it could happen.

She was a beautiful little girl, he thought. She could not be more than four or five years old, and she had silky blue-black hair and large almond eyes, which were concealed at the moment under absurdly long lashes. Charles found himself wondering if she had ever known her parents. If they were still alive. If they had ever meant to leave her alone in the world. As he held her, listening to her quiet, even breathing, he became conscious of a sudden, peculiar ache in his chest.

"Oh, for goodness's sake." Charles started slightly at the sound of Sister Theresa's voice over his shoulder. He turned to see the nun staring down at the sleeping child, partly in exasperation and partly in relief.

"I'm sorry, Major," she said in a hushed voice. "I told her that Lieutenant Malone was resting, and that she mustn't be disturbed. But as you can see, she's a very willful little girl."

He shook his head. "On the contrary, Sister," he assured her, "she's no trouble at all."

Theresa turned her gaze on Malone, and her expression grew sad. "The lieutenant saved Soo-Min by pushing her out of the way when the roof collapsed," she said. "I think she feels responsible for what happened to her."

_Rather a lot of that going around,_ thought Charles, looking down at the girl in his arms. No doubt it explained why she had appeared so distressed over Malone's condition. "The poor child's not to blame," he heard himself reply. "They are both merely victims of one of the numberless atrocities that have been committed during the span of this ridiculous war."

"If only everyone felt as you do, Major," the nun answered, "this ridiculous war would have ended long ago."

He nodded vaguely, trying to focus on what she was saying; though, in truth, exhaustion was beginning to take its toll on him.

"She was so very brave," Theresa whispered, her eyes still on Malone. "So selfless. She really is an extraordinary young lady."

At hearing the sincere admiration in the sister's voice, Charles felt his throat tighten and his vision blur. "Indeed she is," he murmured. "I am proud simply to know her."

Theresa smiled, and they fell into a contemplative silence. After a moment, she spoke again. "Well, I suppose I should get this one to bed," she said softly, gesturing to Soo-Min. "Don't worry about the other children. I've instructed them to be very quiet. They won't bother you or the lieutenant."

It was with a strange reluctance that Charles allowed the nun to take the child and heft her onto her shoulder. She didn't even stir in her sleep. "Do you have any children of your own, Major?" she asked.

He shook his head wearily. "No."

She smiled again. "That's a pity. You'd make a wonderful father."

Charles found himself quite at a loss for words. Before he could even form a reply, however, the sister had already slipped quietly away to the other end of the recovery ward, to put the little girl to bed along with the other children.

He turned back toward Malone. Amazingly, she was still sleeping soundly, despite the almost continuous string of disturbances. As he sat beside her, watchful for any signs of distress, his gaze drifted down to the cast on her leg, and the sick, unsettled feeling in his stomach returned.

He thought about what he had told Sister Theresa: that what had happened to Malone, Soo-Min, and the other orphans had been nobody's fault, except the people who insisted on prolonging this war as long as possible. He found himself wondering if he actually believed what he had said. After all, if he really felt that way, why did this pernicious guilt continue to gnaw at him?

Colonel Potter hadn't been wrong; if Malone had not accompanied Mulcahy to the orphanage, someone else would have — another nurse, or one of the medics, or even one of the 4077th's doctors. But the fact remained that it was _Malone_ lying there, with a steel pin in her leg and potentially permanent damage to her nerves, and _he_ was responsible. His inexcusable behavior had driven her away.

And who could blame her? He had been nothing but cold, distant, and thoroughly insensitive to her feelings. If he had simply explained the obstacles which stood in the way of a relationship, she might have understood. But now he would never know. And all because he hadn't trusted her.

He was a fool.

In the ambulance, when Malone's very life had been slipping away in front of him, Charles had made a vow that he would spend the rest of his days atoning for what he had done to her. But what made him think that she would be in favor of such an arrangement? After learning the truth behind his behavior, why on earth would she want to be with the man who had crippled her, possibly for life? Why would she ever want to see him again?

His eyes stinging with unshed tears, he leaned down and swept her hair out of her face, before brushing his lips lightly over her cheekbone.

"I'm so sorry, darling," he whispered.

* * *

Sherman Potter shoved the telephone handset forcefully into its canvas bag. Then he pushed some papers off his desk, just for good measure. "Hell's bells," he growled through clenched teeth. "What next?"

As hard as it was to believe that anyone would want to engage in combat in this deluge, casualties were on their way. Evidently, since air strikes were out of the question, the enemy was now resorting to ground tactics. Just once, Potter wished he would receive an order from the higher brass, stating that the war had been called on account of rain.

The door to his office swung open, and Klinger stepped inside. He took in the scattered papers on the floor with raised eyebrows. "Something wrong, sir?" he asked.

"What was your first clue?" Potter snapped irritably. At seeing the hurt look on his clerk's swarthy face, he instantly regretted his harshness. "I'm sorry, Klinger," he said, mastering himself with an effort. "I just got a call from Battalion Aid. We've got incoming wounded on the way."

"Oh, come on," Klinger groaned in dismay. "In _this_ weather?"

"Afraid so." The colonel took off his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes. "We'll have to move the kids from the orphanage somewhere else, like the Officers' Club. We're going to need those beds in Post-Op for the injured."

Klinger sighed. "Poor little guys. Even the Bedouin don't move around as much as they do."

"Lieutenant Malone will have to be moved, too," he went on. "Sharing Post-Op with a few kids is one thing. But she shouldn't have to bunk with a roomful of soldiers. Get the V.I.P. tent ready."

"Yes, sir."

The corporal was about to leave when Potter stopped him. "Where's her brother?"

"I sent him to the showers. He smelled like Sophie's stable. No offense, sir."

Potter let the comment slide. "Has he said anything about what happened to him?"

"No, sir," he replied. "I got the feeling he didn't want to talk about it. When I asked him, he got this... look in his eyes." He shook his head, his expression somber. "Something tells me that Nellie isn't the only Malone who's been through hell."

Potter nodded. He'd gotten the same impression. He had managed to get in touch with Private Malone's unit, to let them know he was alive, but when the boy's commanding officer had asked for details, Potter had been forced to admit he didn't know any more than anyone else. And he wasn't about to detain the poor kid with a lot of questions; not when he was cold, filthy, and starving. He'd iron out the wrinkles later. There were bigger issues to worry about at the moment.

Suppressing a sigh, Potter replaced his glasses and stood, his spine creaking in several places in protest. "Well, let's get to work. We might as well move Malone and the kids now. We won't have time once the ambulances start showing up."

"Right." Klinger paused at the door, hesitating. "Major Winchester won't want to leave Nellie, sir."

Potter returned the clerk's gaze. "I know," he said. "I'm counting on it."

As Klinger hurried off in the direction of the V.I.P. tent, the colonel made his way back to Post-Op, where he was sorry to see that most of the children were already asleep. He hated to be the one to oust them out of their beds, but there were no other options.

"Kellye," he said softly. The Hawaiian nurse looked up from the desk in the corner. "We've got wounded on the way. Think you can get these little bambinos to the Officers' Club?"

She nodded, getting to her feet. "Yes, sir."

"Thanks. Enlist a few of the enlisted men to help set up the cots." He turned to Sister Theresa, who had heard him enter. "Sorry to have to evict you, Sister."

"I understand, Colonel," she replied, with considerably more equanimity than he possessed at the moment. He watched as she went over to the children and began waking them up. "Come along, everyone," she said in a hushed voice. "_Bal-li! Gahp-shi-da!_"

He made his way to the other end of the recovery ward, where Malone's bed was concealed behind the privacy screen. He wasn't at all surprised to find Winchester still there, keeping his unflagging vigil, despite the fact that he looked like an ad for acute exhaustion. He was staring at the sleeping nurse like nothing else mattered in the universe.

Potter laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "Pack up all your cares and woes, Major," he said to him. "We're moving your patient to the V.I.P. tent. Bed, I.V., and all."

To his surprise, Winchester didn't even question the order. Instead, he rose slowly from his chair, as if in a dream. As he did so, he swayed slightly, prompting Potter to shoot out a hand to steady him. Potter had never seen the major like this, and he didn't like what he was seeing. It wasn't just the fatigue or the sunken, bloodshot eyes that worried him; it was the _look_ in them. The usual spark of intelligence and smug superiority was gone, replaced by... nothing. It was as if a wire had come loose in the man's brain.

Putting his concerns on the back burner for the time being, Potter focused on the task of moving Malone. After procuring the help of a pair of corpsmen, they picked up the nurse's bed and conveyed it outside, while Potter carried the I.V. stand which held her drip of morphine and antibiotics. As they stepped out into the rain, Winchester instinctively shrugged off his jacket and held it out over Malone, protecting her from the elements.

Despite himself, Potter was touched by the tender gesture. He had remarked to himself, some time ago, upon Malone's unique ability to see some hidden side of Winchester, to which the rest of the camp was blind. It was only now that he realized why. It was because she brought it out in him.

They reached the V.I.P. tent and carried her inside. Eventually, when she was a little stronger, they would move her to the other bed that already occupied the tent, which was a great deal more comfortable. For now, however, Klinger had propped it on its side and pushed it up against the wall.

"Thank you, boys," Potter told the corpsmen, after they had gently set down Malone's bed. "You're dismissed; for now, anyway." He turned to Klinger. "Would you excuse us, son? I need a word alone with the major here."

Klinger's gaze flickered briefly to Winchester. "Yes, sir."

As the clerk slipped quietly out the door, Potter pulled out the chair from behind the desk in the corner. "Have a seat, Winchester."

The man fell gracelessly into the chair like a sack of bricks, as if the mere act of standing upright required more energy than he possessed. Potter shook his head to himself. He might as well get to the point, while there was still time.

"Some time in the next few minutes," he said, "you're going to hear an announcement to report to O.R. Ignore it. I'm officially relieving you of duty."

This succeeded in bringing Winchester out of his stupor. "Colonel?" he asked, blinking blearily up at him.

Potter took a deep breath, folding his hands behind his back. "Under normal circumstances," he continued, "I would tell you to go straight to your tent and get some rest. For once, though, I suspect that such an order would probably do you more harm than good. And since I don't have the heart to pry you away, you can be Nurse Nellie's nurse for a little while longer."

The Bostonian's shoulders slumped in obvious relief. "But make no mistake," the colonel added sternly, "after the wounded are dealt with, I'm sending someone in here to take over for you. And I don't want any arguments. Is that understood?"

Winchester swallowed. "Yes, sir. I..." He faltered. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it." On his way out of the tent, he paused, his hand resting on the door. "I expect you two will have a lot to talk about, when she wakes up," he remarked evenly.

There was a brief silence. "Yes, I expect so," came the quiet reply.

Potter nodded. "Are you going to tell her?"

Another, longer silence. "Yes," murmured Winchester, his voice thick with emotion.

The colonel smothered a smile. "About damned time," he said gruffly, and walked out the door.

As he stepped out into the compound, the rain beating down on his head and shoulders, he became aware of a low rumbling — faint at first, but gradually growing in volume: the growl of distant engines. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

_Here we go again._

* * *

Danny Malone stood under the steady stream of water, his eyes closed. The temperature was as hot as he dared to make it, and yet he couldn't seem to dispel the chill that had settled in his bones. He wondered if he would ever be warm again.

There was a time when he used to love war movies. _Twelve O'Clock High_, _Sands of Iwo-Jima_, and _The Dawn Patrol_ were some of his all-time favorite films. Now, he wasn't sure how he could have ever stood to watch them. There was nothing even slightly glorious or exciting about war. War was ugly. War was wrong. War was a sick game that left behind a swath of destruction and death in its wake.

Involuntarily, Danny found himself recalling the thoughts running through his head when he heard the first rounds of gunfire. At first he hadn't even been able to fully process what was happening. Then, when the windshield of the jeep in which he'd been riding had unexpectedly shattered, and the sergeant behind the wheel had jerked violently in his seat and slumped forward, limp and boneless, against the dash — not just injured, but suddenly, undeniably, irreversibly _dead_ — reality had abruptly hit him with the force of a battering ram.

He still didn't know where he had found the presence of mind to grab hold of the steering wheel. But even as he did so, he knew right away that it wouldn't be enough to regain control of the vehicle. With his dead sergeant's boot still pressing firmly down on the accelerator, the jeep had become an instant, 2,500-pound juggernaut, and there were two vehicles traveling in the convoy ahead of them. So he did the only thing he could think of. He threw the car into reverse and pulled on the parking brake.

The results had been surprisingly less dramatic than he had anticipated. There had been a horrible grinding sound as the gears stripped themselves apart, and the wheels had locked in place, causing the vehicle to fishtail, but he hadn't been ejected from his seat, as he had fully expected. Quickly, he'd veered off to the side of the road, and as soon as the jeep had decreased its speed sufficiently, he reached down and pressed on the brakes, slowing the vehicle to a complete halt.

What had followed could only be described as a bloodbath. He had grabbed his rifle and climbed out of the jeep to find himself in the middle of a massacre. It was then that he'd realized that the basic combat training he had received at Fort Worth had been, in a word, worthless. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of his fellow soldiers, his brothers-in-arms, being gunned down like animals. The air had been filled with the sound of discharging firearms, whizzing bullets, and the screams of dying men. Above the chaos, he could hear someone yelling the order to retreat, but to Danny, escape seemed impossible.

Fully convinced that he would soon be next to die, he had immediately thought of Nellie. Even as he had dropped to the ground, using the stalled jeep for cover, and begun firing blindly on the enemy, he had found himself thinking that it was all so perverse and unfair — that his sister should have devoted nearly her entire life to looking after his well-being, only to lose him in some pointless war that didn't even make any sense. After the death of both of their parents, it seemed like the final injustice.

It was then that his thoughts had finally turned toward self-preservation. There was no way in Hell, he had decided, that he was going to leave Nellie all by herself.

And with his ammunition spent, and his entire convoy dead, in retreat, or taken captive, he had thrown down his empty rifle and dove off the road into the underbrush.

He had no idea how long he ran, but when he finally dared to stop, he'd had no idea where he was. Everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by dense forest. From then onward was something of a blur. He knew he had wandered for days, but there was no telling exactly how many. Certainly it was long after he had run out of his rations. Thankfully, there had been no danger of dying of thirst; every night, he had set out his canteen to collect rainwater, while he sat huddled and shivering under the meager shelter of a tree.

At last, after an indeterminate amount of time, he had finally emerged from the forest onto a dirt road. He'd waited, hungry, sleep-deprived, and thoroughly soaked, until he spotted a pair of locals coming along in an ox-cart. At the sight of them, he had broken down and wept in relief.

Somehow, he had been able to convey to them his desire to find the nearest U.S. military installation, and very kindly, they had offered to take him directly to it. The shock he had felt upon seeing the familiar canvas tents, the camouflage netting, and the tall wooden signpost reading "Best Care Anywhere" had nearly resulted in his falling off the back of the ox-cart.

And then, as Max Klinger had caught sight of him and quickly rushed forward, informing him that Nellie had been involved in an accident, his elation had vanished as quickly as it had come.

Now, as he stood under the near-scalding water, Danny gradually became aware that he was shaking, his hands gripping the walls of the shower stall so tightly that they were starting to rattle. With an effort, he managed to release his grip. Breathing unsteadily, he shut off the water and reached for a towel.

He had no idea what Klinger had done with his clothes, but they were beyond salvation, anyway. Drying himself off, he wrapped himself in Captain Pierce's threadbare purple bathrobe. Upon learning that Danny had arrived at the 4077th, alive and in one piece, the lanky surgeon had been only too happy to lend him his prized possession. Despite its rather ratty appearance, it was surprisingly comfortable. At any rate, it beat wearing Klinger's pink housecoat.

After pulling on a pair of slippers — appropriated from God only knew whom — Danny draped his towel over his shoulder and stepped out into the rainy night. To his surprise, he found the mobile hospital alive with activity. Ambulances were parked haphazardly all over the compound, and nurses were running back and forth in between corpsmen, who were carrying wounded men on litters.

He saw Pierce kneeling over an injured soldier, his hair wet and tousled by the rain. The surgeon glanced up briefly and spotted him. "Hey, looking good, kid," he said, attempting a tired smile. "Purple is definitely your color."

"What's going on, Captain?" Danny asked.

"Special delivery from the aid station up at the front," he said, gesturing to the soldier's bloodied bandages. "They even gift-wrapped them for us."

The sight of all that red, blooming out across the white field dressing, was suddenly too much for Danny to handle. "Oh, God Almighty," he muttered, turning away and closing his eyes tightly.

"Hey, you okay?" asked Pierce in concern.

He nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." He took a deep breath. "Sorry, sir. Just... unpleasant memories."

The captain gave him a sad, knowing look. "You're way too young to have unpleasant memories," he said in a low voice.

Then he stood up straight and patted him on the back. "Hey, Goldman! Levine!" he shouted. "I've got a ruptured spleen over here! Get him into Pre-Op! Come on, move it!"

Pierce dashed off in a different direction, and Danny made his way to the main hospital building, dodging sprinting nurses and enlisted men. As he stepped quietly into the recovery ward, he fully expected to see Major Winchester still sitting at his sister's bedside. Instead, he was taken aback to find that Nellie was nowhere in sight. Even her bed was gone.

Panic swiftly rose in him, taking over before he could control it. "Where's Nellie?" he blurted, to no one in particular. "Hey! Where's my sister!"

Lieutenant Kellye rose from the desk in the corner and rushed over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Calm down, Danny," she said soothingly. "Nellie's just fine. We had to move her to the V.I.P. tent, to make room for the wounded."

"Oh." Danny felt a little foolish. "Where is that?"

Kellye pointed to the double doors leading to the compound. "Go out those doors and turn right. Keep going, a little past the Officers' Club, and you'll see a row of tents. It's the one on the far end. You can't miss it."

"Thanks, Lieutenant," he replied gratefully. As she turned back toward her desk, he said, "You should probably be made aware of some of the things my sister has said about you."

She arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" she asked pertly, trying not to smile.

He nodded, very solemnly. "She writes about you with such glowing praise that it very nearly reaches radioactive levels."

Kellye burst out laughing. "Oh, Lord," she said, rolling her dark eyes in amusement. "I don't know about this. I'm not sure how long the camp can survive _two_ Malones."

With a chuckle, Danny exited the recovery ward and hurried off in the direction of the V.I.P. tent. As he walked, his borrowed slippers squelched as they quickly became drenched from the wet ground. The rain didn't seem to be letting up at all; if anything, it had only increased in severity in the span of a few minutes. He earnestly hoped the storm wouldn't grow any worse than this. He knew how much Nellie hated thunder, and she had been through enough hardship already.

There was a light on in the window of the V.I.P. tent. It was with mixed feelings that Danny slowly approached the little canvas structure. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Major Winchester would be in there, and he wasn't at all sure how he felt about the man. On the one hand, he knew from Nellie's letters that his recent behavior toward her had not exactly been in a manner befitting a gentlemen; for reasons which completely eluded her, he had suddenly begun treating her like a total stranger. It had been a hell of a blow to Nellie, who was clearly fond of the major. And yet, if Klinger's account of events was to be believed, Winchester had not only saved Nellie's leg, but her life, as well.

And now, it seemed, he was insistent upon keeping a constant watch over her. To say that he was sending out mixed signals would have been an understatement, to say the very least.

Taking a deep breath, Danny pushed open the door to the tent and crept softly inside. By the dim light of a little table lamp, he found Nellie still sleeping peacefully, her white hospital gown lending her a slightly ethereal air. And seated beside her bed, sure enough, was Winchester. He was hunched forward in his chair, watching her silently, his thumb tracing light circles on the back of her hand. The sight of him confirmed at last what Danny had long suspected, and what Nellie, for all her intelligence, had never managed to put together.

This man was completely, head-over-heels in love with his sister.

Swallowing an entirely unexpected lump in his throat, Danny stepped forward quietly. "Major?"

Winchester gave a start, turning in his chair. "Daniel," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "I didn't hear you come in."

Danny wasn't at all surprised; the major had been totally absorbed in his vigil. He came to stand beside his chair, looking down at Nellie. "Has she been asleep this entire time?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Winchester nodded minutely. "She's been through quite a harrowing ordeal," he replied softly, his gaze returning to the sleeping girl.

The young man felt a pang as he thought of what Nellie must have endured: trapped and in agony, surrounded by the sound of exploding shells, with no one but the chaplain to comfort her. He reminded himself to track down Father Mulcahy, at the soonest available opportunity, and thank him for everything he had done for his sister.

He cleared his throat. "Why don't you let me take over for a while, Major?" he offered. "You look like you could use a break."

"My personal discomfort is irrelevant," was Winchester's leaden response.

His physical state seemed to suggest otherwise. His eyes were glassy and fevered, with some pretty substantial dark circles beneath them. And even though he was sitting, he seemed strangely unbalanced; Danny had little doubt that he could push the man over with one finger.

"With all due respect, sir," Danny said in a low voice, "I think you're wrong." Winchester frowned, but said nothing. "Look, I know you want to be here for her," he went on, keeping his tone neutral, "but you're not doing Nell any favors by depriving yourself of rest. Prolonged exhaustion is likely to decrease your ability to concentrate. You won't be of much use to her if you can barely function yourself. You're a doctor. You know that."

He refrained from mentioning his own fatigue, which would have to be addressed eventually. But he sensed there was some deeper reason behind Winchester's adamant refusal to leave Nellie's side. It was as if he was punishing himself for what had happened to her.

Suppressing a sigh, Danny laid a hand on the older man's shoulder. "Do yourself a favor, sir," he said gently. "Take a long, hot shower and then get some sleep. Even if it's just for a few hours. You're no good to Nellie in this condition."

As he contemplated the boy's words, Winchester seemed to relax, almost imperceptibly. Then, slowly, he gave a nod. "Perhaps there is some wisdom in what you say," he replied at last. "But I should still like to be informed the moment she wakes."

Danny offered him his hand, and was somewhat surprised when the major didn't turn down his assistance. As he helped Winchester to his feet, he couldn't help thinking that he and his sister certainly made an odd pair — the tall, haughty, upper-class Bostonian and the quiet, studious little redhead. And yet, Danny had to admit that, for all his arrogance and stubborn pride, he wouldn't mind having the man for a brother-in-law.

He stood hesitating at the door, evidently still reluctant to leave. "Don't worry, Major," Danny told him. "I'll look after her. She _is_ my sister, after all."

This seemed to satisfy him, at least for the present. "By the way," Danny added, as he turned toward the door, "I wanted to thank you."

Winchester stopped, confused. "Thank me?" he repeated.

Danny swallowed. "Klinger told everything you did for Nell," he said quietly. "She owes her life to you. You said you'd take care of her, and you kept your promise. Thank you for that."

But Winchester was shaking his head, still facing the door. "I didn't keep your promise, Daniel," he said in a low voice, filled with bitterness and self-loathing. "I've failed you, I've failed her... and I've failed myself."

He slipped out of the tent, leaving Danny alone with his sleeping sister. The boy realized he was holding his breath, and let it out slowly. Lowering himself into the empty chair, he sat listening to the rain, and to the soft, even sounds of Nellie's breathing.

_Oh, Ginger,_ he thought, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. _What have you gotten yourself into?_

* * *

Nellie's dreams were filled with strange sounds, disjointed images and half-forgotten memories. Rain drops on her glasses. Indistinct faces, contorted with worry. The flash of a knife blade. The sound of her own screams.

The sensation of weightlessness. Of nothingness. And then, a voice shouting at her, _begging_ her, to hold on.

Gentle hands caressing her face. The press of warm lips on her forehead. A constant, comforting presence.

When Nellie finally opened her eyes, she thought she must still be dreaming. She found herself lying in a bed, staring up at the canvas ceiling of a tent. Her glasses were gone. Outside, a storm was raging, but within all was still and peaceful.

And then she remembered her leg.

Slowly lowering her gaze, she looked down at the tubes running from her arm, at the fresh bandage on her wrist, and finally, at the white plaster cast. Beginning at the top of her left hip joint, it seemed to go on forever. And yet, inexplicably, she didn't feel any pain. How could that be? Morphine wasn't _that_ effective, was it?

She realized she had had these thoughts before. Vaguely, she recalled a conversation between herself and... and _Charles_. Charles had been with her, at some point. He had spoken to her, held her in his arms. But where was he now?

She tried to sit up, and winced as her entire body cried out in protest. Frustrated, she cast her gaze around the little tent, and it was then that she finally noticed that she was not alone. Hawkeye was sitting beside her bed, wrapped in his dingy, wine-colored robe.

Nellie frowned at his blurry form. There was something _off_ about him. When she realized what it was, she wondered if perhaps she wasn't still dreaming after all.

"Hawkeye?" she asked, her voice husky. "When did you dye your hair red?"

He gave a delighted laugh, and Nellie inhaled sharply. That didn't sound like Hawkeye at all. In fact, it sounded unmistakably like...

She swallowed weakly, hardly daring to hope. "Danny?" she whispered.

As he leaned toward her, his features resolved into a familiar, freckled, much-loved face. "Hey, Ginger," he said with an enormous grin.

A sob tore loose from Nellie's throat, followed by another, until she was weeping uncontrollably in sheer relief. Danny reached down and pulled her into a hug, holding on to her fiercely. She realized, somewhat disconnectedly, that she had cried more in the past twenty hours than she had done in the last twenty years. Even after her sobs died away, they simply clung to each other for a long time, neither saying a word.

"I was so afraid," she finally said, when she could bring herself to speak. "I was so afraid I'd lost you."

"Sorry, Nell," he murmured.

She blinked in disbelief. "'Sorry, Nell'?" she repeated, indignant. "What do you mean, 'Sorry, Nell'? Don't you ever do that to me again!" She felt him chuckle as he gave her a squeeze. "What happened to you?"

Danny pulled away, though he still held her uninjured hand tightly in his. Suddenly, she noticed how drawn and haggard he looked.

"Long story short," he said wearily, "we were attacked. I got separated from the convoy. And then, after wandering around in the woods for a few days, I got picked up by some locals, who dropped me off here."

His account seemed deliberately sketchy on the details. Nellie couldn't help thinking he was leaving a lot out. "You got lost?" she asked dubiously. "And that's all?"

He sighed heavily. "No, that's not all," he admitted, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "But I'm not sure you could handle it right now." He swallowed. "To be honest, I don't think I could, either."

Nellie regarded him sympathetically. She was anxious to know everything, but it was plain to see he didn't want to talk about it. "Another time, then," she said, tightening her hold on his hand. "I'm just glad you're all right."

Danny smiled warmly. "Same here," he replied. "When Klinger told me what happened..." He trailed off, unwilling to finish his sentence. "What is wrong with you, anyway, Nell? Rescuing orphans from collapsing buildings?" He shook his head in mock exasperation. "What a show-off."

She punched him weakly on the arm, and he drew back, pretending to be mortally wounded. "Quiet, you," she told him, unable to hold back a smile of her own.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, each content simply to enjoy the other's presence. "Klinger also told me," Danny said after a while, "that Major Winchester saved your life."

At the mere mention of Charles, Nellie felt her heart rate increase. "Yes, he did," she murmured, her cheeks growing warm. "Again."

"Again?"

She told him all about the incident that had occurred on their way back from the aid station, and how Charles had pushed her out of the jeep a split-second before it had gone off the road, effectively saving her from being impaled on a tree branch. Danny listened silently, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Where is he?" she couldn't help asking.

"Asleep, I hope," was Danny's reply. "This is the first time he's left your side since the surgery. I thought I would have to drag him out of here." He paused, suddenly remembering something. "That reminds me. He wanted me to let him know when you woke up."

"Oh, no," Nellie said quickly. "No, you should let him rest."

Her brother shook his head. "No can do, Nell. There's no way I'm disobeying an order from a major." He rose to his feet and gave a long stretch. "By the way," he added, moving to the door, "you're not going to let him get away with this, are you?"

She frowned in confusion. "With what?"

"Stealing my big sister's heart away from me."

Nellie's throat tightened unexpectedly.

"I'd never allow that," she said at last.

Danny smiled slightly. "Something tells me it's already too late," he answered. "You're crazy about him. Don't deny it."

Her eyes filled with tears, which she quickly blinked away. "Brat," she growled, trying to sound annoyed.

He simply laughed and walked out the door. As Nellie lay there, listening to the howling of the wind and the steady drumming of the rain, she thought of Charles and felt her pulse quicken again. She had resolved, no matter what, to tell him just how much he meant to her. But now, as the moment drew swiftly nearer, her determination was soon replaced by fear. She couldn't forget the fact that he didn't reciprocate her feelings; if he did, he would have told her so. She tried to convince herself that it didn't matter, but she knew she was only fooling herself. It hurt, knowing he didn't care about her that way. It hurt more than anything.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. She had to tell him anyway. He had to know.

She flinched slightly as the door swung open, and Danny came in out of the rain. Behind him, wearing his striped dressing-gown over his pajamas, was Charles. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink. As his china-blue eyes met hers, she felt her breath catch in her throat.

"Malone," he said, his voice low and slightly raspy. "How are you feeling?"

She tried to give a casual shrug, and failed spectacularly. "A little sore," she replied, inwardly cursing at how nervous she sounded. "A little foggy."

Charles nodded stiffly. "That'll be the morphine," he said.

He came forward and leaned over her, adjusting the drip on her I.V., and Nellie was all-too-aware of the warmth created by his proximity. She caught a whiff of his sandalwood soap, which told her he had recently taken a shower. When he stepped back, she felt cold and bereft.

When he spoke again, it was in a slightly wavering tone. "And... your leg? Any change at all?"

His gaze was so bleak, so despairing, that Nellie could hardly bear to answer him. "None," she told him softly.

All the breath seemed to leave his body, and he shut his eyes. Danny, who had been watching this exchange silently, suddenly cleared his throat. "Well, uhh," he said awkwardly, "I'm... I'm going to get some shut-eye. I guess I'll leave you to it, then."

He came over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Glad you're okay, Nell."

She smiled despite herself. "You, too, Danny Boy."

He slipped out the door, leaving her alone with Charles. There was a tense silence, which neither of them had the courage to break. Finally, steeling herself, Nellie forced herself to speak.

"Charles? Would you help me to sit up, please?"

At first he didn't seem to hear her. Then he blinked, emerging from his gloomy reverie. "Of course," he said, bending down and assisting her to an upright position, taking care to be as gentle as possible.

Nellie waited while he grabbed an extra pillow and placed it behind her back with the others, fluffing each one meticulously in turn. Then, as he started to pull away, she wrapped her arms around him tightly, holding him close.

"Don't you dare blame yourself for this, Charles," she whispered fiercely.

He shook his head disconsolately, even as his own arms went around her. "How can I not," he asked unsteadily, "when I am entirely to blame?"

"You are _not_ to blame," she told him firmly. "I'm the one who told you to perform that fasciotomy. I knew there might be a risk of nerve damage, and I made you do it, anyway. If you hadn't done it, I would have lost my leg. I might have even gone into renal failure." She pulled back slightly, placing her good hand on the side of his freshly-shaven face. "You had to do it. You were _right_ to do it."

Charles shook his head again, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "You don't understand," he said miserably. "None of this would have happened if I had simply been honest with you from the beginning."

"About what?"

He brought her hand away from his face and held it delicately in his, as if he thought it might break. "Malone..." He took a deep breath. "I... I lied to you. When I said I didn't care for you, I was lying through my teeth."

Suddenly, Nellie's heart was pounding in her ears. "Charles," she whispered, her throat tight.

"I love you, Malone," he breathed. "God help me, I love you so m—"

The rest of his sentence was cut off as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Clearly startled, Charles went completely rigid for perhaps a second or two. And then, quickly overcoming his initial surprise, he released her hand and slid his arm around her waist, pulling her against him as he deepened the kiss. Ignoring the various aches and twinges in her body, she leaned into his embrace, her own arms traveling up his broad shoulders before twining themselves behind his neck.

"Much," he murmured breathlessly, causing her to smile against his mouth. His fingers brushed across her cheekbone, before sinking into her hair. "I love you more than I thought myself capable of loving anyone."

"Oh, God, I love you, Charles," she whispered, breathing in the scent of sandalwood soap and fresh, clean skin. "No, scratch that. I don't love you. I _adore_ you."

Turning his head slightly, Charles kissed her temple, followed by her jawline. When his lips reached the side of her neck, just under her earlobe, Nellie's eyes slipped shut, a delicious shiver running through her. Involuntarily, her hands tightened on his back, grabbing fistfuls of his dressing-gown. His lips continued to move slowly down her neck, to the curve of her shoulder, and the combination of his breath against her skin and the warmth of his hands through the thin fabric of her hospital gown were enough to leave her feeling light-headed in the best possible way.

Suddenly she inhaled sharply as Charles's nimble fingers found their way between the ties in the back of her gown and skimmed across her bare skin, dancing feather-light along her spine. The feeling was like nothing she had ever experienced in her life. But it wasn't merely the sensations he was causing by his touch that nearly brought tears to her eyes. He loved her. It was there in each press of his lips, in every tender caress. She felt it with every fiber of her being.

But, she reminded herself, if he truly did love her...?

"Charles," she heard herself say, mentally kicking herself for ruining the moment, "why didn't you tell me?"

"Hmmm?" he mumbled absently, preoccupied with kissing every last freckle on her shoulder.

With an effort, she managed to force herself to focus. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked again. "Why did you feel you had to lie?"

At this Charles pulled away, his face lined with anxiety. "Oh, Malone," he said thickly. He took her bandaged hand gently in his and gazed down at it for some moments. "My darling, I cannot tell you how sorry I am for the way I've treated you. You have been a soothing balm to me, during the most difficult time of my life. And I've repaid you with cruelty and neglect." He swallowed. "But you mustn't imagine that I ever wanted to hurt you, or that I enjoyed even a second of it. I just... I didn't see that I had any other choice. I don't expect you can forgive me—"

Nellie cut him off with a squeeze of her hand. "I _do_ forgive you," she said sincerely. "In fact, I'd already forgiven you, before you even came in here. I just..." She sighed. "I just want to know _why_."

He shook his head to himself. When he spoke, his voice was filled with shame. "The sad, humiliating truth of the matter is... I was afraid. Not of how you would react," he hastened to add. "With your usual, wonderful honesty, you had already told me that you cared for me. No, I was afraid... of my family."

She stared at him, not entirely sure she had heard him correctly. "Your family," she repeated slowly.

"My parents, in particular," he said quietly, still looking down at their joined hands. "They have very... specific expectations for me, one of which, unfortunately, being what sort of woman I should marry. If it were up to them, I've no doubt I would spend the rest of my life shackled to some shallow, vapid creature, with an irreproachable pedigree and absolutely no redeeming qualities." He shuddered in distaste. "I suppose, in my own way, I've always rebelled at the idea; otherwise, I'm sure, I would have already married by now. But I never did. And then I met you."

Nellie's heart swelled at the sudden tenderness in his voice. "I never saw you coming," he said softly, raising her fingers to his lips and kissing them reverently. "I truly didn't. After all the brainless debutantes I'd been forced by my parents to endure, you were a complete surprise." He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, and his eyes were shining with love. "I don't know how it's possible... but I think you were made for me. You are everything I'd always hoped for, but never seriously expected to find."

After an admission like that, there was nothing else to do but kiss him again. He responded immediately, his lips roaming over hers, his movements gentle and unhurried. She lifted her other hand to run it slowly down his cheek, along his smooth jaw. He made a soft sound of contentment into her mouth, and it sent a thrill through her.

At length they broke apart, slightly breathless and leaning against each other for support. "I am honored," Nellie murmured into his shoulder, "by your high opinion of me. But something tells me your parents are another story."

Charles sighed, his breath stirring her hair slightly. "Please believe me, Malone, when I say I do not share their narrow-minded prejudices. I could not care less that you do not descend from a long line of pampered aristocrats. I care about _you._"

Nellie couldn't help thinking that he _must _love her, if he was willingly calling his own kind "pampered aristocrats". "However," he continued, his voice low, "my parents, as you say, are another matter entirely. They would tear you apart, Malone." He shook his head against her. "How could I put you through such a thing? How could I even tell you how I felt, knowing that to pursue a relationship would almost certainly incite their disapproval?"

She was silent, her ear pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "I can see why you thought you couldn't tell me," she said after a moment. "But you should have. Don't ever feel like you have to suffer in silence, Charles. You can tell me anything." He squeezed her gratefully. "You really have been torturing yourself over this, haven't you?"

"You have no idea," he muttered. Nellie rubbed his back soothingly. "I know I shouldn't allow them to control me. But it's a rather difficult pattern to break."

"They _are_ your family," she reminded him. "It's only natural that you should want to please them."

"Yes, but..." He sighed again, pulling away to look into her eyes. "You don't understand. Your idea of family and mine are... very different. It's not that my parents were not supportive. They were. Very much so. Financially."

He paused, and Nellie waited patiently for him to continue. He spoke so rarely of his family, and she knew it was a struggle for him to open up to her like this.

"Growing up," he said slowly, "my sister and late brother and I wanted for nothing, materially speaking. However, when it came to our... emotional needs... I'm afraid to say they were woefully deficient. More often than not, they delegated their parental duties to some other third party — nursemaids, nannies, private tutors." He shook his head. "One can't really fault them for it; in families such as ours, it's simply the way things are, the way they've always been. All the same, I... I can't help envying you, Malone."

She frowned, puzzled. "True," he went on to explain, "you lost your parents at a relatively early age. But your time with them was filled with... warmth, and love." His voice had sunk to a near-whisper. "I have no idea what that is like. I'm not even sure if either of our parents ever told us that they loved us. They don't even love each other."

His confession brought tears to her eyes. _Oh, Charles,_ she thought, her heart twisting in sympathy.

"Pathetic, isn't it?" he said in a low voice. "I resent them... but I'm loath to defy them."

Nellie felt another pang. "I'm sorry," she said, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "I didn't realize your relationship with them was so complicated." She took a deep breath, forcing herself to say the words. "Charles, I could never make you choose between me and your family. Family's the most important thing there is."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Even a family that is cold and oppressive? A family that has robbed you of affection from the day you were born?"

"They're still your family."

He leaned forward, until his forehead touched hers. "But I love you," he whispered desperately.

Nellie's heart soared, even as it threatened to break. "And you love them. You know you do." He exhaled in vexation, but she wasn't finished. "Charles, this isn't just about me. I've endured the Winchester cold shoulder before; I can do it again." She gave a rueful smile, which he didn't return. "But what about you? How would _you_ feel, being the outcast of your family, all because of me?"

Charles shook his head. "I don't care," he said firmly. "I don't care anymore. I am through with being their mindless puppet."

"You say that now," she said gently. "But what about a year from now? Five years? Ten? What if they _never_ came around? I'm not so sure you could bear it. And I wouldn't _want_ you to." She swallowed. "Who knows? You might start to resent me after a while. Even hate me."

He tightened his hold on her. "That would _never_ happen," he said fervently.

"You don't know that," she argued, her voice wavering. "You can't."

"_Yes,_ I can." He took both of her hands in his. "Malone, I almost lost you. _Twice._ I cannot go through that again. I _need_ you." His hands moved up to her shoulders as he gazed earnestly into her eyes. "The prospect of living without you... _That_ is something I cannot bear."

A spark of hope ignited in Nellie's chest and continued to grow in intensity, until she thought she might burst.

"Are you absolutely certain?" she whispered.

He brought his hands up to cradle her face. "I am," he said softly.

She couldn't help smiling at the conviction she heard in his voice. "In that case," she answered, "I'm willing to give this a try. If you are."

In response, he leaned in close, his nose brushing against hers. "I am more than willing," he breathed, before capturing her lips with his.

As she sank into Charles's arms, eagerly returning his kisses, Nellie's eyes began to sting with tears. It felt so natural, so logical, so _right_, to find herself clasped in a close embrace with this man — this proud, proper, perfectly polished man, who pretended to be so cold and aloof, but was in reality quite the opposite. As his fingers became hopelessly lost in her hair, she felt a sudden rush of fierce affection for him. He would never feel unloved again. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Drawing her lips from his, she kissed his forehead, then his eyelids. Even after she pulled away, his eyes remained closed, a smile of contentment on his face.

"You look exhausted," she said, sweeping her hand over his brow.

"Do I?" he murmured, his eyes still shut. "I feel exhilarated."

She smiled. "You really should get some sleep."

He shook his head. "I don't want to leave you."

"Who said you have to?"

Charles opened his eyes, and she gestured to the other bed, propped up on its side against the wall of the tent. He raised an eyebrow at her, asking a silent question, and she nodded. Standing up, he tilted the bed upright onto its feet. And then, to her surprise, he slid it across the room and pushed it up against her own bed.

Nellie watched, a smile tugging at her lips, as he slipped out of his dressing-gown and laid it across the back of the nearby chair. Then, pulling back the covers, he sat down on the edge of the bed and methodically removed his slippers. It occurred to her that she was watching Charles Winchester's regular nightly routine. She found herself fervently hoping that this was only the first of many such occasions.

As he reached over to turn off the lamp, his gaze strayed to the white plaster of her cast, and his expression grew solemn. "Your leg," he began mournfully.

"Can be addressed later," she finished firmly, leaning back against her pillows. "Come here."

He smiled and switched the lamp off, leaving them in darkness. He settled in beside her, careful not to disturb the I.V. drip in her arm, which had somehow miraculously stayed in place during all of their embraces. As he draped an arm somewhat possessively around her waist, she turned her head slightly and kissed his jaw. In response, he brushed his lips over hers, lightly, and then again, with more pressure. Soon she was aware of nothing but his warm mouth and his strong yet gentle hands.

"I suppose," he whispered, nuzzling her hair, "that I shall have to start calling you Fenella."

"You'd better not, you ridiculous man."

He chuckled warmly in her ear. "Thank God," he replied, tightening his hold on her.

Smiling to herself in the darkness, she let her eyes drift shut. "I love you, Charles," she said, her voice already slurring with sleep.

He pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead. "I love you," he murmured. "Malone."

Neither of them noticed, some time later, when Margaret Houlihan knocked lightly on the door and entered the little tent. Silently, she took in the sight of them, tangled in each other's arms, fast asleep. And then, with a small smile, she left, gently closing the door behind her.

* * *

A/N: **/Bad Octopus throws confetti**

Finally, I ended on a happy note, instead of a shocking one! Of course, that's probably shocking in itself. I don't care. It has been my absolute joy and pleasure to write this chapter. Don't worry, there's still quite a bit more to come. In the meantime, I just got this sudden, inexplicable urge to watch a whole lot of _M*A*S*H_. I recommend you do the same, if at all possible. But please be so kind as to leave a review, my dearest readers. Yours always,

-Octopus


	26. A Custom Fit in an Off the Rack World

A/N: Oh, dear. Apparently I've got people doing backflips and falling down flights of stairs. I never intended for my writing to inspire such feats of acrobatics. Oh, I wish I could hug you all! But I'll settle for saying thanks _so_ much for your wonderful reviews. They're like chocolate, only not nearly as bad for my thighs. And thank you, as always, to my beta reader, **blown-transistor**. I'm still waiting for you to write your own _M*A*S*H_ story, little lady!

Oh. So this chapter is definitely rated T. Expect much kissing and fooling around and such. Charles and Nell have a lot of lost time to make up for. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: _M*A*S*H_ belongs to much smarter, wealthier minds than mine.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twenty-Six: A Custom Fit in an Off-the-Rack World

When Nellie woke, she thought she had died and gone to heaven. Then, of course, she remembered where she was and realized her mistake. They were called the Pearly Gates, not the Olive Drab Gates.

The V.I.P. tent was dimly lit, illuminated only by the thin strip of gray morning light which streamed in through the curtains. It was still raining outside, but it had slackened off to a slight drizzle. She lay on her back, listening to the sound of the raindrops pattering lightly on the canvas roof. Before long, its soothing cadence had almost succeeded in lulling her back to sleep.

And then Charles stirred in his slumber, and she smiled.

Were it not for the undeniable fact that he was lying beside her now, Nellie would have been hard-pressed not to suspect that the events of the night before had all been a wonderful, delirium-induced dream. Nevertheless, there he was: fast asleep, his long arm wrapped securely around her waist, and his face buried in her hair. She didn't have to pull back the blankets to know that one of his legs was lazily draped over hers. For a man who was usually so reserved, he certainly had no trouble expressing his affection while he was unconscious.

Very gently, so as not to disturb his rest, she covered his hand with her own. She still couldn't quite believe that it had actually happened — that they had both survived all the hardships and heartache and near-death experiences to get to this point. If someone had told her, upon her arrival in Korea last autumn, that she would fall hopelessly in love with one of the surgeons in her unit — and not just any surgeon, but a filthy rich surgeon who had studied medicine at Harvard and whose family owned half of Boston — she would have laughed in their face.

But all of that was immaterial to Nellie. She couldn't have cared less about Charles's money or his position in society. She loved _him._ She loved his brilliant, razor-sharp mind. She loved his kind, generous heart, cleverly hidden though it was, except to those who really knew him. She loved his wry, subtle sense of humor. She loved the look of rapture on his face when he listened to his music, and the way his eyes sparkled with mischief every time he teased her.

Damn. Danny was right. She had it bad.

Danny. What would he think of all this? He knew how she felt about Charles, but he also knew from her letters that their relationship had been strained, until very recently. How would he react when he learned that his big sister was now romantically involved with the very same man she had dubbed, in her anger and frustration, "a frigid snob" and "a ridiculous fancy-pants"? He would think her the most fickle girl who had ever lived.

Everything was about to change. Given the extent of her injuries, it was likely that she would be sent home, and very soon. As absurd as it was, she found herself dreading the prospect. She knew, of course, that the 4077th couldn't be expected to take care of her. But the people here had become her family. She could hardly bear the idea of leaving them. Of leaving Charles. How would their relationship work, with an entire ocean separating them? After all they had been through together... it just wasn't fair.

Nellie sighed, her gaze drifting down to the white cast on her leg, which almost seemed to glow in the near-darkness. It was so disconcerting, knowing her leg was _right there_, but being unable to feel it. What would become of her, when she got back to the States? Between the injury compensation she would receive from the Army and the trust fund her father had set up for herself and Danny, she wouldn't be left in the lurch by any means. But where would she go? She couldn't very well look after herself with a broken leg, especially if the paralysis was permanent. She didn't exactly relish the thought of living with her uncle and aunt in Malibu, but she supposed there was really no other alternative.

What if she never regained sensation in her leg? What then? Her nursing career would be over, and nursing was all she had ever known. She couldn't imagine what she would do if she had to give it up. What use would she be to anyone?

And what about when the war was over, or when Charles accumulated enough rotation points to come back to America? No doubt he would return to Boston; of course he would. It was his home, after all. Would he ask her to come with him?

Would he even want her at all, now that she was... damaged goods?

"Enough cogitating," Charles suddenly mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep. "You'll give yourself a headache."

Nellie blinked in surprise. "How did you know I was—"

"Your fingers. They were drawing furious little patterns on the back of my hand."

With an effort, she pushed her disquieting thoughts out of her mind for the time being. "I'm sorry," she said, rubbing his arm. "I woke you up, didn't I?"

Charles propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down into her eyes. "Think nothing of it," he murmured, reaching up and brushing her hair out of her face. "To be honest, I'm not entirely convinced this isn't a dream."

She felt her cheeks grow warm as she steadily returned his gaze. "I know what you mean," she said softly.

Slipping his hand gently underneath her head, he lowered his face toward hers, and their lips met in a slow, lingering kiss. Involuntarily, she slid her arms around his back, pulling him closer, enjoying the warmth of his body against hers. A shiver of pleasure went through her as she felt his other hand trace a path down her side to settle on her hip, his strong fingers kneading her skin through the thin hospital gown. This was no dream. This was real, and the revelation was almost overpowering.

"If it be thus to dream," he whispered huskily, his breath warm in her ear, "still let me sleep."

_Twelfth Night. Naturally._ She smiled, weaving her own fingers through the slightly curled hair at the nape of his neck. "I thought you said you'd had your fill of Shakespeare."

"Did I say that?" His deep baritone reverberated against her chest, sending another thrill through her. "It must have been the concussion talking."

She let out a laugh. She couldn't help it. Such an excess of happiness simply couldn't be contained. "God, I missed you," she said fondly.

This provoked a very unexpected reaction in Charles. Abruptly, he sat up, causing the bed springs to creak slightly. Alarmed by the sudden change, Nellie watched as he passed a pensive hand across his face. As she reached out and laid her bandaged hand on his shoulder, she could not fail to notice how tense he had become. She didn't like this. Not at all.

"Charles." He didn't reply. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding her gaze. "Charles, what's the matter? Was it something I said?"

Quickly, he laid his hand over hers. "No, of course not, Malone. It's simply that I..." He shook his head to himself, a bitter gesture. "I can't help... remembering what I did to you. The pain I've caused. I know I hurt you, deeply. It was... unworthy of me."

"I told you already that I forgive you," she reminded him gently.

"Yes," he murmured. "I know."

Nellie felt her heart sink. "But you haven't forgiven yourself," she said in realization.

Charles shook his head again. "No," he confessed in a low voice. "And I suspect I never will." He still wouldn't look her in the eye. "It's a matter of honor, Malone. You see, I've... I've set rather high standards for myself. Standards which I broke when I chose to push you away. When I lied to you." He swallowed, his gaze straying to her cast. "And look what it's cost you."

His self-recrimination was all too evident; it seemed to radiate off him in waves. Nellie knew how much his integrity meant to him. It was what drove him to be the very best, in surgery as well as in every other aspect of his life. It was what prevented him from compromising his ethics, and from succumbing to the potentially corrupting influences around him. It was, she supposed, just an inevitable part of being a Winchester.

It was also his downfall. His greatest strength was, ironically, his greatest weakness. Being the best meant that he wasn't allowed to be imperfect.

She made an attempt to push herself up to a sitting position, but couldn't quite manage it. Charles noticed her efforts, and slid an arm behind her shoulders, gently helping her upright. As he did so, she placed her hand on the side of his face, forcing him to look at her.

"Charles," she said quietly, "do you still think that you're to blame for what happened to my leg?"

He didn't answer. But then, he didn't have to. Even without her glasses, it was plain to see that he did.

Nellie heaved a sigh. As much as she admired his sense of honor, it also vexed her. It was painful to see him so miserable, so consumed with guilt. This was not the Charles she knew and loved. She missed his air of effortless confidence, his dry, witty humor, his sardonic smirk. She even missed that maddening smugness of his, which surprised her. She hadn't even realized she loved that part of him, until it was gone. And she was determined to get it back again.

She took a deep breath. "Let's clear this up right now," she told him. "You are not the reason I went with Father Mulcahy to the orphanage. The fact of the matter is, I was under so much stress over worrying about Danny that I needed a distraction. I _wanted_ to go. Regardless of whether you and I had been on good terms or not, the outcome would have been the same."

He closed his eyes, but she would have none of that. "Look at me, Charles." His eyes flew open, surprised by the firmness of her tone. "You saved my life. _Again._" It was suddenly somewhat difficult to speak around the lump in her throat. "I'd say that makes us even."

A shadow of his old smile briefly touched his lips, giving her hope. "Besides," she added, brushing the backs of her fingernails across his cheek, "I don't like seeing you this way. You're much too sad for my tastes. Whatever happened to the Charles Winchester who used to beat the pants off me at 'Name That Classical Composer', and tease me about liking G.K. Chesterton?"

He gave a chuckle which was more of a breathy exhalation. "I'm afraid his ego suffered a significant blow, when it nearly cost him the love of his life."

Nellie felt a pang at his words. "Any chance he'll recover soon?" she asked softly.

"Perhaps." His arm, which was still around her back, tightened its hold. "If you'll tell me what I can do to atone for my despicable behavior." She sighed in frustration, but he was insistent. "Please, Malone. I will do anything. Just name it."

As she looked into his mournful blue eyes, their pupils large in the dim light of the tent, she suddenly had an idea.

"Well," she said slowly, her tone purposely light and playful, "you _do_ still owe me a game of Go. You said we'd play after we got back from the aid station, but we never did." She shook her head in mock censure. "Very bad form, sir."

Charles smiled again. His other hand reached up and toyed idly with a lock of her hair. "I hadn't forgotten, however it might have seemed." His smile faded, all too soon. "I just thought... given the state of affairs between us..."

"I know," she said gently. Very carefully, so as not to dislodge the intravenous lines in her arm, she clasped her hands behind his neck. "So, what do you say? I promise I'll try to go easy on you."

His eyebrows rose at this. "Oh, is that so?" he asked, shooting her a rather arch look. "How very considerate of you, Malone."

Nellie grinned. This was more like it.

"I've got a much better idea," he continued, leaning into her, his mouth close to her ear. "Imagine, if you will, the warm glow of candlelight. Some soft music playing in the background; say, Dvořák's _Romantic Pieces for Violin and Piano_." His voice had deepened to a low, velvety rumble. "And a bottle of '39 Château Latour." Nellie drew in a sharp breath as she felt his lips graze her earlobe for a split-second. "All... carefully... selected... in order to ease the pain of your bitter defeat."

Nellie let her mouth fall open in feigned shock. "Such brazen audacity. I love it." He chuckled warmly, and her heart soared at the sound. "Charles, am I coming down with brain fever, or did you just ask me out on a date?"

He pulled back slightly, looking at her with mild surprise. "I... I suppose I did," he said at last.

She smiled. "Then in that case, you should ask me properly."

Returning her smile, he took her hand in his. "Malone," he said very solemnly, "may I have the exquisite pleasure of your company this evening?"

Surely it wasn't wise to love anyone this much. It couldn't be healthy. "I'd be delighted," she replied, a little breathlessly.

Still smiling, Charles closed the short distance between them and kissed her lightly. It was meant to be a brief peck, but when he started to pull away, Nellie placed her hands firmly on either side of his face and drew his mouth back to hers.

He seemed as surprised by her sudden boldness as she was herself, but he clearly didn't seem to mind. His arms tightened around her, pulling her close, until her body was flush against his. It wasn't long until all rational thought fled from her mind, and all she could focus on was the feel of his impossibly warm, soft lips moving over hers.

"Traditionally," he murmured, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the small of her back, "the goodnight kiss is reserved for the end of the date, not before."

"Mmm," she mumbled dreamily against his lips. "You're probably right. Should we stop?"

"Are you mad, woman?"

Nellie let out a laugh at this, which was quickly silenced as once again he covered her mouth with his. With a sigh, she melted against him, amazed at how natural it felt to be in his arms. Given her lack of experience, she had fully expected to feel some nervousness, perhaps even a touch of fear at the idea of being alone with a man in such an intimate setting. But the exact opposite was proving true. This wasn't just any man. This was Charles. This was the man who had told her, with an air of vulnerability that was almost heart-breaking, that she was everything he had hoped for. How could she possibly be nervous, if she had been made for him?

She placed her hands on his chest, feeling his heart beating rapidly under her palm. For some reason, this had an unanticipated effect on her. A soft moan escaped her before she could stop it, and Charles responded by deepening the kiss further, gently coaxing her mouth open with his. His every movement was deliberately languid, and maddeningly thorough.

Without breaking the kiss, he eased her slowly back against the pillows, causing her breath to catch in her throat and her fingernails to dig unthinkingly into his shoulders. "Charles," she whispered, feeling for the first time a twinge of apprehension.

"Shhh," he soothed. "It's all right, Malone. Rest assured, I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable." He pressed a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Or to cause you to lose your trust in me."

Unexpectedly, Nellie found herself blinking back tears. "You _are_ real, aren't you?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly.

He chuckled at this. "Does this feel real enough to you?" he asked teasingly, focusing his attentions on the side of her neck.

She had to bite back another moan. "Oh, my, yes," she replied breathlessly. "And may I say, you're quite good at that."

Charles pulled back slightly and arched a haughty eyebrow at her. "Of course you may," he said, throwing her an infuriatingly arrogant smirk, the effect of which was significantly tempered by the love shining in his eyes.

Shaking her head in good-natured exasperation, Nellie snaked her arm behind his neck and pulled his lips back to hers. For a long time, she simply surrendered herself to his warmth, his taste, his gentle touch, and his whispered words of adoration.

They were so completely lost in each other, in fact, that neither of them noticed when the door of the V.I.P. tent suddenly swung open, and a tall, lanky figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright light outside.

"Knock, knock," came Danny's hushed voice. "I hope you're up, Nell. I wanted to see if you were hungry, because I can — _Oh, dear God!_ Sorry, sorry, sorry, I'll come back later!"

Nellie raised her head from the pillows just in time to see her little brother beating a frantic retreat out of the tent, banging the door noisily behind him.

She looked at Charles, who was blinking at her in undisguised shock.

"Well, I _was_ wondering how we were going to tell him," she said.

And then, a second later, they both dissolved into helpless, uncontrollable laughter.

* * *

Francis Mulcahy strolled cheerfully through the compound on his way back from the showers, his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe and his towel draped over his shoulder. As he walked, he whistled "Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'", earning a few strange looks from the members of his flock. But he couldn't help it. For once, it _was_ a beautiful morning.

It had begun like any other day in Korea during the wet season: rainy, humid, and perfectly miserable. And then, to Mulcahy's delight, the clouds had burned away, leaving in their place a breathtakingly blue sky. It was such a welcome change that not even the lingering headache from his injury was enough to diminish his joy.

Still whistling to himself, he passed Sergeant Rizzo, who appeared to be on his way to the motor pool. "Well, good morning, Rizzo," he said, raising his hand in greeting.

The sergeant fixed Mulcahy with a look that he'd once heard Klinger describe as "the skunk-eye". "Yeah?" he said sullenly. "What's so good about it?"

Mulcahy would have thought it obvious. "Why, everything," he replied brightly. "The sky is blue, the sun is shining. As the poet Browning said, 'The lark's on the wing, the snail's on the thorn, God is in His heaven, and all's right with the world.'" He gave a small chuckle. "Or at least, all's right with the 4077th, anyway."

Rizzo humphed. "I don't know nothin' 'bout no larks and snails," he grumbled. "But what I do know is, I got an ambulance with a hole in its oil pan the size of the Atchafalaya Swamp. And I'll give you three guesses as to who's got to fix it."

"Oh, dear," said Mulcahy, his tone a little less jovial. "It must have happened on the way back from the orphanage. I'm afraid we couldn't afford to slow down to avoid the rocks and pot-holes."

The Cajun rolled his eyes. "You ain't kiddin', Father. From the looks of it, I'd say you folks was lucky to have made it back to camp at all. Guess somebody up there must like you."

Mulcahy stared silently at the sergeant, realizing the implications of his words. A leak in the oil pan, especially a large one, was by no means an easy fix. If the ambulance had decided to break down before they had arrived at the hospital, they would have been stranded. And Nellie would have been lost. The thought was a sobering one.

He swallowed. "Yes," he said at last, "I think you may be right."

It was in a considerably more subdued frame of mind that he resumed his walk back to his tent. At least, he mused, young Danny Malone would be in a better mood than Rizzo. The poor, exhausted private had been in need of a place to sleep, and knowing that a decent night's rest would have been next to impossible in the Swamp, with the surgeons going in and out at all hours to check on patients, Mulcahy had offered to let Danny stay in his tent. The lad was out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow on his folding cot. But he had woken quite refreshed, and Mulcahy had left him in high spirits.

With a yawn, the chaplain pulled open the door of his tent and stepped inside. He was surprised, and somewhat confused, to find Danny still there. He was sitting on the edge of his cot and staring off into space, his expression not unlike that of a man who had been struck by a bolt of lightning and somehow survived without a single scorch mark to show for it.

Mulcahy frowned. "Danny?" he asked in concern. "Is everything all right?"

At first the boy didn't seem to hear him. Then he blinked up at him, looking dazed. "Father," he said in an odd voice, "do you have any siblings?"

The priest was thrown by the question. As far as non sequiturs went, this one definitely did _not_ follow. "Well," he said slowly, "yes, actually. I come from a rather large family. Three brothers and a younger sister."

"Are you close to them?"

At this he felt his face grow warm. "Not exactly. My brothers and I never really got along. I'm afraid they take after our parents a bit too much." He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "But my sister Catherine and I are extremely close. Or rather, I should say, Maria Angelica. She's a nun at St. Cecilia's in Philadelphia. I'm very proud of her."

As Danny listened, his shoulders seemed to slump in disappointment. "Oh," he said in a monotone, staring down at his hands. "She sounds nice."

Mulcahy turned and hung up his towel to dry. Then, retrieving his chair from behind his desk, he sat down across from Danny. "What's troubling you, my son?" he asked quietly.

The young private's cheeks reddened to match his hair. When he spoke, it was in a low, embarrassed voice. "I just walked in on Nellie and Major Winchester."

"Oh?" Abruptly, he realized what Danny meant. "_Oh,_" he said, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "Oh, dear. Were they, ahh... canoodling?"

Danny let out a bark of laughter, seemingly against his will. "Were they ever," he replied wryly.

Mulcahy smiled sympathetically. Now he understood why the boy had asked about his own siblings. Unfortunately, he had asked the wrong person; Mulcahy had never had to adjust to the idea of his sister dating anyone, because she had always wanted to serve God. But of course, Danny had no way of knowing that.

"You know," the young man continued, "when Nell started going out with Klinger, I didn't think anything would come of it. And I wasn't the least bit surprised when it didn't. I mean, Klinger's a great guy, and he's always been good to my sister, but I knew they were never going to work out." He shook his head, still looking down at his hands. "This is different, though. This is _real._ I can actually see Nellie and Winchester... getting married. Having kids." He sighed. "I thought I was ready for all that, but I guess I'm not."

"Well, that's perfectly understandable," Mulcahy said gently. "Nellie is your sister, after all. It's normal to experience a certain amount of protectiveness."

Danny snorted. "Selfishness, is more like it," he muttered. "No, it's true, Father," he added, noting the priest's look of protest. "See, the thing is, for as long as I can remember, Nellie's always been there for me. Not even my transfer to Korea was enough to separate us." He swallowed. "I honestly didn't think anything ever would. Until now."

"Danny." Mulcahy laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Nothing could ever separate you and Nellie. She adores you. Why, anyone can see that." He smiled, but his tone was serious. "She may have found someone special to share her life with, but that doesn't mean she'll love you any less. You do know that, don't you?"

The redhead nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah. I know." He passed his hand over his face. "What do you think of him, Father?" he asked.

"Of Charles?" Mulcahy sat back in his chair in deliberation. "Well, let's see. What is there to say about Charles? He's a complicated man; some would say a difficult man." He smiled again. "And others would say that was putting it mildly."

He grew quiet, remembering the look on Winchester's face when he had first seen Nellie, trapped under that massive beam. The tender manner in which he had examined her injury. The tears of desperation in his eyes as he had pleaded with her to stay with him, to hold on.

"But," he added softly, "he's also a very good man. And I believe he loves your sister with everything that is in him."

Danny's mouth lifted slightly on one side, reminding the chaplain of Nellie's own silly smile. "I think so, too," he replied. He heaved a histrionic sigh. "I'm just being ridiculous. Every inch the jealous little brother." Mulcahy chuckled. "But I do want her to be happy."

"That's definitely a good start," Mulcahy told him kindly. "Now," he said, standing up, "what do you say to trying our luck over at the mess tent? There's a small chance that the orphans haven't eaten everything in sight just yet."

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, startling him. He moved to answer it, and received a pleasant shock when he saw who was on the other side. It was none other than the other half of the indomitable Malone duo herself, being pushed in a wheelchair by Winchester. She was wrapped in the major's striped dressing-gown, and a smile was on her freckled face.

"Hello, Father," she said amiably.

"Nellie," he exclaimed, his hands moving instinctively to tighten the sash around his own robe. "My heavens, what a wonderful surprise. It's so good to see you up and about. And so soon! Oh, what a relief!" He was aware that he was babbling, but there was no stopping him. "And how are you, Charles? I trust you're well rested? Well, of course you are. You're already looking much better, if I may say so."

"You may, Father," Winchester replied in his haughty, upper-crust drawl, though not without a patient smile. "Thank you. Might we come inside for a moment?"

"Of course, of course! Where are my manners today? Please, come in." He hastily stepped aside, holding the door open. As the major wheeled Nellie into the tent, she beamed up at Mulcahy in genuine affection. She looked tired and pale, but there was a happy glow to her that warmed the priest's heart to see.

Danny had risen to greet them, as well, his cheeks slightly pink. "Good morning, Nell. Major." He gave an awkward cough. "I'm sorry about... earlier. Next time I'll actually wait for an answer before barging in like that."

Nellie laughed in amusement at her brother's flustered behavior. "At ease, Private," she told him with mock seriousness. "You didn't interrupt anything unseemly. You know what a prude I am." She cast a sheepish look in Mulcahy's direction. "Sorry, Father. I'm trying to be tactful as possible."

"That's quite all right, Nellie," he answered with a chuckle.

Winchester stepped forward, his posture very stiff and formal. "I owe you an apology, Daniel," he said in a low voice. "I should have informed you of my intentions toward your sister long before now. I hope you can forgive my critical oversight."

Danny held up a hand. "No apologies necessary, sir," he said firmly. "And with all due respect, it hardly needed to be said. I think your intentions were obvious to practically everyone in Korea. Everyone except Nellie, of course."

"Hey, shut up," she said, trying in vain to look offended.

"Anyway," he went on, blithely ignoring his sister, "I'm happy for you both. Really." He smiled. "Just as long as you keep taking good care of her, Major."

For a moment, Winchester seemed to be struggling to maintain his composure. He cleared his throat. "I fully intend to do so," he said at last. "And you are certainly welcome to call me Charles."

As Nellie quickly dashed a tear from her cheek, in a rather conspicuous attempt to be inconspicuous, Mulcahy couldn't quite suppress a smile of his own. In a place full of so much pain and suffering, it did his soul good to see some happiness for a change.

Danny slipped his hand into his sister's. "Listen, no offense to the only doctor in the room, but should you really be here?" he asked in concern. "You just had a serious operation, Nell. Are you sure you're well enough to be out of bed?"

"I'm fine," she assured him. "I don't feel any pain. In fact, I don't have any feeling in my leg at all at the moment."

At this Mulcahy felt a pang of dismay. "Oh, Nellie," he said sadly. "I didn't know that."

She looked up at him, and her expression become one of fondness. She cast a glance at Winchester, who nodded and wheeled her forward. Releasing Danny's hand, she beckoned Mulcahy closer. Though slightly bewildered, he did as he was bidden and knelt in front of her chair.

"Father," she said very solemnly, "don't be alarmed, but I'm about to hug you."

And then she did, with a strength he had hardly expected her to possess. "Thank you," she told him, her voice thick. "Thank you for staying with me. I'll never forget it. And before you try to argue, just remember that I never would have made it, if it hadn't been for you. You're one in a million, Francis John Patrick Mulcahy."

The chaplain felt his vision begin to blur. "I don't know what to say," he murmured hoarsely, his throat burning. "I'm just... glad I could be of use."

Nellie gave him one last squeeze before releasing him. As he stood, adjusting his skewed spectacles, he received another surprise when Winchester reached out and grasped his hand in both of his.

"Father, you are undoubtedly the master of understatement," he said, his tone unexpectedly warm, "but you have my most sincere and heartfelt thanks, as well."

As the major shook his hand, and Danny patted him gratefully on the shoulder, Mulcahy was nearly overcome with emotion. "My goodness," he managed to say around the lump in his throat. "Now I know what King David meant when he said, 'My cup runneth over.'"

* * *

When Margaret was younger, she would have killed to have had red hair. She distinctly remembered being ten years old, and seeing a colorized photograph of Clara Bow. With her big, dreamy eyes, her flawless skin, and her pouty lips, all topped by that forest of wild, fiery curls, she had been easily the most beautiful woman Margaret had ever seen in her short life. It was years before she had finally been able to appreciate being a blonde.

Malone's mane, however, was another thing altogether. It seemed to have a life of its own.

As the head nurse ran a brush through the younger woman's newly-washed hair, she apologized for the millionth time as the teeth got caught in a particularly nasty tangle. In the months since she had first had it all chopped off, it had grown quite a bit, and as a result had become completely unmanageable. Fortunately, it seemed Malone was used to it. She hadn't flinched even once.

Margaret would never know how word had spread so quickly throughout the camp that Charles and Malone had finally worked out all their issues and were even planning to go on their first official date, but for once, she was grateful for the power of gossip. After enlisting the aid of Lieutenant Kellye, she had commandeered Malone's wheelchair and taken her straight to the nurses' tent to help her get ready. After all, with a sprained wrist and a broken leg, there wasn't much the poor girl could do by herself. And this was an historic event.

While Margaret continued to comb the snarls out of Malone's damp hair, Kellye meticulously applied her makeup. She had chosen a deep, vibrant red for her lips, making them stand out against her pale complexion. As the Hawaiian nurse stepped back to admire her handiwork, Malone eyed her with an uncertain look.

"Are you sure it's not too much?" she asked nervously.

"Hush," Kellye told her firmly. "I know what I'm doing. Now quit fidgeting and let me finish. And don't even _think_ about chewing your lip."

Malone blinked at her in surprise, but did as she was told. "I don't know how you do that," she muttered under her breath.

They worked in silence for a moment. "Malone," Margaret said at length, "where's that dress you wore to the Valentine's Day party?"

"Oh, that belongs to Nagel," Kellye answered for her. "But I'm sure she won't mind letting Nellie borrow it again."

As they helped Malone into the dark blue frock, taking pains to be gentle with her, she frowned in confusion. "Shouldn't I wear something else? Charles has already seen me in this dress."

"Yeah," Kellye replied with an amused smirk, "and he couldn't take his eyes off of you all night."

"Really?" Malone asked, sounding genuinely taken aback.

"Don't tell me you didn't notice," Margaret said incredulously.

Slowly, she shook her head. "No, I guess not." She paused, before adding reflectively, "We played Go that night, too. I wondered why he kept making such lousy moves." Her eyes slipped shut in realization, and she hit her forehead with the heel of her palm. "God, I really am oblivious, aren't I?"

Kellye patted her on the back. "Don't worry," she said with a smile, "it's endearing."

"More like embarrassing." She gave a rueful sigh. "I wonder how many men I've managed to offend because I was too dense to notice their interest in me."

Margaret suppressed a chuckle. "You were just waiting for the right one to come along, that's all. And you picked a good one, Malone." She hesitated, wondering if she should continue. Finally she decided there was no harm in it. "You know, I was a little taken with Charles myself when he first came here. There, I said it."

Malone twisted around in her wheelchair to regard her with wide eyes. "Seriously?" she blurted, before remembering herself. "I mean, is that right, Major?"

The head nurse laughed. "Sure. Of course, I was married at the time. But still, it's not every day that a tall, rich, distinguished, _rich_ doctor gets transferred to your camp. Did I mention he was rich?"

It was Malone's turn to laugh. "Oh, I see," she said with a knowing smirk.

"Don't get me wrong," Margaret went on. "Money isn't everything. Believe me, I know." She rolled her eyes, remembering a certain wealthy tightwad by the name of Frank Burns. She shook her head, as if to rid herself of the memory. "Charles may be aggravating sometimes, but he's a true gentleman. Which is more than I can say for a lot of men I've known."

"And he has pretty eyes," said Kellye suddenly. They both stared at her. "Well, he does," she added defensively. They only continued to stare, which caused her to throw up her hands in exasperation. "Okay, so I used to have a little crush on him, too," she admitted. "He can be really charming when he wants to be. And he's a very good dancer."

Malone smiled wanly. "Not me. I'm about as graceful as a giraffe on roller-skates. And now..." She gave a sigh which caught in her throat. "I may never be able to dance with Charles."

Margaret felt her heart ache with pity. "Oh, Malone." She put a hand on the nurse's shoulder. "You don't know that your leg won't recover."

"No. But I don't know that it will, either." She sniffed, wiping at her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm smudging my makeup already."

There was a knock at the door, and Malone quickly attempted to compose herself. "Who is it?" she asked.

"Special delivery for Nellie Malone," came a familiar nasal baritone.

At this the redhead broke into a smile. "Come in, Max," she answered.

Klinger stepped inside the tent, carrying a long, rectangular box under one arm. As his gaze lighted on Malone, he placed a hand on his chest and pretended to swoon. "Be still my heart," he said with a theatrical sigh. "Now those are what are referred to in showbiz as lips that won't quit."

Malone tried to swat him, but he dodged her adroitly. "What are you doing here, Klinger?" Margaret demanded, her hands on her hips.

"Take it easy, Major," he said in what he no doubt assumed was a soothing tone. "I come bearing gifts." He placed the box in Malone's lap. "Go on, open it up," he told her.

Regarding the corporal somewhat dubiously, Malone slowly removed the lid from the box. And then, drawing in a sharp breath, she took out a pair of long white opera gloves. "Oh, Max," she breathed. "They're beautiful. Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he replied. "They're probably a little big, but they'll look a lot better on you than they ever did on me." She laughed at this. "More to the point," he added, "they'll cover your bruised wrist nicely."

Margaret had to smile. "That's a very sweet gesture, Klinger."

He gave a nonchalant shrug, though he couldn't hold back a grin. "So," he said, eagerly rubbing his hands together, "can I help with anything? Like your hair?"

Kellye chuckled. "You're still just one of the girls, aren't you, Klinger?" she asked teasingly.

The clerk drew back in feigned indignation. "Hey, lay off me, will you? I just want to make sure Nellie looks her best for her date with Major Windbag."

"Max," said Malone with a warning glare, "be nice."

"Relax, I'm just pulling your..." His gaze drifted down to her cast, and he cleared his throat. "I'm just kidding," he amended weakly.

Malone folded her arms huffily over her chest, and Klinger gave her a placating pat on the hand. "I'm sorry, Nell," he said kindly. "I was only playing around. I really am happy for you. I mean it."

Slowly, her crooked smile returned to her face. "Thanks, Max," she said gratefully.

He returned her smile. "Any time, kid."

And then, with a smooth motion, he plucked the hair brush neatly from Margaret's grasp before she had a chance to react. "Step aside, Major, I can take it from here," he said with an air of infuriating self-assurance.

The head nurse watched, too surprised to protest, as Klinger stepped behind Malone's chair and began to work the brush through her thick red hair like a professional. As he swept it into a sleek, graceful updo, pinning it securely with her jade-and-silver combs, Margaret could only stare in amazement.

"You know, Klinger," she told him, genuinely impressed, "you just might have a very lucrative business for yourself when you get back to Toledo."

He gave a low chuckle. "It's a nice suggestion, Major, but the guys at the bowling alley would never let me hear the end of it." He shook his head, heaving a sad sigh. "I guess I'll just have to live with being a frustrated artist. Like that Victor Van Gogh guy."

The three nurses exchanged a glance with one another, before they all burst out laughing.

Klinger blinked in confusion. "What?" he demanded. "What'd I say?"

* * *

Record player? Check.

Candles? Check.

Wine? Check.

A selection of cheeses and dried fruits? Check.

_Pâté de foie gras_?

Wait a minute. Where was it? Oh, of course. He hadn't brought it, because Malone had said once that she didn't eat internal organs. The silly girl.

Charles looked around the V.I.P. tent, racking his brains to think of anything he might have forgotten. There were glasses, plates, silverware, matches for the candles. He had even managed to persuade Rosie to part with one of her table cloths, for a price. Everything seemed just about perfect.

And then he realized he'd left his Go board back at the Swamp.

Shaking his head, he stepped out into the compound, breathing in the warm evening air and trying to remain calm and collected. He couldn't recall the last time he had been this nervous. Even as a teenager, he had never felt such a rush of delirious anticipation over a date. But then again, he had never been on a date with a woman who stimulated him in every way, who challenged his intellect even as she drove his senses wild. In short, a woman like Malone.

What was incredible was the fact that she seemed completely unaware of the effect she had on him. There was not a trace of dissemblance in her. She simply had no idea. For some reason, that made her even more irresistible to him.

He hoped he would be able to control himself tonight.

The lights were all on in the Swamp when he arrived. He pulled the door open to find Pierce, Hunnicutt, Klinger, and Danny sitting around a rickety deal table, playing a game of poker. Nodding briefly to them, he strode without preamble to his desk and picked up his Go board.

He turned and found Klinger eyeing him with interest. "You're not going on your date dressed like that, are you?" he asked, taking in his informal attire with a raised eyebrow.

Charles felt his fists clench in surprised indignation. "Just _how_, pray tell, do you know about—"

"Don't blame us, Chuck," Pierce interrupted in a bored tone. "News travels fast around here."

At this Charles rolled his eyes. "Of course it does," he muttered, relaxing slightly. "I might have known. Don't people have anything better to do than exchange gossip?"

"Sure," replied Hunnicutt, not looking up from the game. "We're doing it now. Come on, Danny, let's see your cards."

The young private spread out his hand on the table. "Queen-high flush," he said with a yawn.

Pierce groaned, throwing down his own cards. "I don't think I like this kid anymore."

Coughing into his hand to hide his amusement, Charles tucked the Go board under his arm. "Gentlemen," he drawled, "I leave you to your massacre."

"Hey, I'm not kidding, sir," Klinger told him as he moved toward the door. "You really ought to change. I just came from the nurses' tent. Major Houlihan and Nurse Kellye have got Nellie dressed to the nines."

He stopped short. "Really?"

"Major," the clerk said with a toothy grin, "she's gonna knock your socks off."

Charles glanced at his wristwatch, wavering in indecision. Then, with a distracted sigh, he set down the Go board and reached for his gray suit. He'd had it cleaned and pressed on his last trip to Seoul, but it had still seen better days. The creases in the trousers were all but nonexistent. At least, he reflected, it would be relatively dark.

He couldn't seem to find his shoes anywhere. As he hastily pulled his tie into a half-Windsor, he rifled through his possessions, trying to remember where and when he had seen them last.

"If you're looking for your wingtips," said Pierce, breaking into his thoughts, "they're under my cot."

He rounded on him sharply, his eye twitching. "_What?_"

Reaching under his sagging bunk, the chief surgeon retrieved his shoes and held them out to him, newly polished to a high shine.

"They were looking a little shabby," he explained with a smile.

Charles was speechless. Slowly, he reached out and took the shoes. "Thank you, Pierce," he said quietly, when he could finally speak.

He sat down to pull on his shoes, and Hunnicutt leaned over and punched him hard on the arm. "Go get her, you big lug," he said with a cheesy grin. "Whoops," he added with a glance in Danny's direction. "Sorry, kid."

The boy chuckled. "That's okay," he replied. "I think I'm getting used to it. Sort of. Or I will, eventually."

As Charles stood up, picking up his Go board once again, Danny gave him a crooked smile. "Tell Nellie to go easy on you... Charles."

Unable to hold back a smile of his own, he rested his hand briefly on the boy's shoulder, before turning and leaving the Swamp.

After safely stowing the Go board in the V.I.P. tent, he made his way across the compound yet again. He paused outside the nurses' tent, trying to gain control of his racing pulse. Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand and knocked.

"Come in, Major," said Lieutenant Kellye in a lilting voice.

With more than a little trepidation, Charles slowly pulled the door open and stepped inside. Kellye and Margaret were standing side by side, grinning broadly. Just as he was preparing to ask what the hell was the matter with them, they both moved aside, and all of the air promptly rushed out of his lungs.

Malone was sitting in her wheelchair, but his eye was decidedly not drawn to her cast. She was wearing the strapless, midnight blue dress she had worn to the Valentine's Day party, and her arms were encased in a pair of long white gloves. Her hair was in an elegant chignon, and around her neck hung the jade moon rabbit pendant which matched her eyes so perfectly.

"I ne'er saw true beauty till this night," he whispered reverently.

Margaret and Kellye exchanged a glance and sighed in unison.

Belatedly remembering that they were not alone, Charles quickly composed himself and came forward, taking Malone's hand in his. "Good evening, my dear," he said, raising her gloved fingers briefly to his lips. "Are you ready?"

She smiled up at him in frank adoration, causing his heart to skip a beat. "Absolutely," she replied.

He moved behind her chair, pointedly ignoring the irritatingly amused looks on Margaret and Kellye's faces. He cleared his throat when they failed to move out of the way. "If you will excuse us, ladies," he said dryly.

They hastily stepped back, allowing Charles to wheel Malone out of the tent. He bade the nurses a firm good night, not lingering to listen to their giggles. He did permit himself a smile, though, as he heard Malone give a low chuckle of her own.

When they finally arrived at the V.I.P. tent, he felt like he could breathe at last. As he lit the candles and placed the wine glasses on the table, he found himself stealing glances at Malone, enjoying her facial expressions as she watched him.

He turned on the record player and placed the phonograph needle on the spinning disc. As the first notes of Dvořák's _Romantic Pieces_ filled the little tent, Malone sighed dreamily, her eyes drifting shut in bliss. "You are a wicked man, Charles," she said with a smile.

He chuckled, feeling himself begin to relax. "You don't seem in the least perturbed by it," he remarked, shooting her a smirk which she pretended not to notice. "Would you like to sit on the bed, or would you prefer to remain in your chair?"

"The bed, please. I'm dying for a chance to stretch."

Charles leaned down and grasped her by her small waist, lifting her carefully out of her wheelchair. Her arms went around his neck, sending a current of pleasure through him. As he deposited her gently on the bed, he caught the scent of her hair.

"What is that?" he asked, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. "Your shampoo, I mean."

"Cherry blossom and almond." Her arms were still around his neck.

"Almond," he repeated in a whisper, his nose buried in her hair. "I would never have guessed. It's intoxicating."

"Do you really like it?" Malone craned her neck up to look at him, causing him to whack his chin on the crown of her head. "Sorry," she said with a wince.

"My fault entirely," he replied, unable to restrain a chuckle.

He arranged her pillows into a divan of sorts behind her back, and she leaned against them with a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank you," she breathed.

Charles kissed her forehead lightly. "You're quite welcome," he murmured.

With an effort, he forced himself to step back. He slid the little table closer to the bed, until it was easily within Malone's reach. Finally, he sat down across from her, taking up the bottle of Château Latour. "Technically," he said, "this particular vintage won't reach its true potential for, say, another twenty years or so." He smiled. "However, this is a rather special occasion."

As he prepared to open it, Malone leaned forward and stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Maybe we should wait, then," she suggested softly. "Imagine how good it will be twenty years from now, when it's really had a chance to mature."

Charles felt a sudden tightness in his chest. "Do you think you can tolerate me until then?" he asked, his voice low and hopeful.

Malone smiled. "Easily."

He was so unexpectedly moved that he had to turn away to master his emotions. As he busied himself with setting the wine bottle safely aside, she spoke again. "Did you happen to bring anything else to drink?"

He cleared his throat. "Just some sparkling mineral water, I'm afraid."

"That would be lovely."

In the time it took for him to open the bottle and pour it into the glasses, he was finally able to regain his composure. "To what shall we drink?" he asked her.

At this Malone gave a slight, bashful smile. "There is an old toast that I'm rather fond of."

Unwillingly, Charles was reminded of the crass poem Margaret had recited once, not long after he had first arrived in Korea — back when he had foolishly thought she might prove to be a kindred spirit in this den of wolves. _Look out, teeth, look out, gums, look out, liver, here she comes._ That had certainly answered that question.

Forcibly, he pushed the memory from his mind. "Tell me," he urged Malone, his tone gently encouraging.

Clearing her throat, she raised her glass in her gloved hand, little finger raised primly. "Drink to me, only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine," she said, gazing at him steadily. "Or leave a kiss but in the cup, and I'll not look for wine."

"Ben Jonson," he murmured, recognizing the words instantly.

Malone nodded, still smiling. Charles stared at her for a long moment, unable to say a word. Though it seemed impossible, he found himself falling even more in love with her. _However did I exist without you?_ he thought, his eyes beginning to sting.

She took a sip and set her glass aside. "All right, come on," she said, gesturing to the Go board. "Let's play already. _Hajime-masho!_"

They began a game, alternating between placing their pieces on the board and sampling the various fruits and cheeses Charles had brought. Before long, Malone was scolding him lightly for holding back. But in truth, he simply couldn't focus. He couldn't believe that he was so blessed to have this woman in his life. It no longer mattered one iota to him what his parents would think. He was never giving her up.

"What is this called?" she asked him, nibbling delicately at a piece of cheese. She had taken off her gloves, not wanting to dirty them.

He glanced up. "_Pouligny-saint-pierre_."

She shook her head. "My, I've led a sheltered life," she remarked. "How have I lived twenty-eight years and never eaten this? It's amazing."

He chuckled in amusement. "Once I bring you back with me to Boston, I shall give you a _proper_ culinary education," he told her.

Slowly, she set the cheese down on her plate, wiping her hands with a cloth napkin. "Then you still want me to come?" she asked, her voice carefully even.

Charles could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Of course I do," he replied softly.

"And... what about Danny?"

"He'll come with us, if that is what he wishes," he answered, without hesitation. "He's a bright lad. And with my connections, I've no doubt we can find him employment somewhere. Who knows? We might even be able to get him into Harvard."

Malone smiled faintly. "You seem to have given this a lot of thought," she said, sounding a touch overwhelmed.

"Do you not want to come to Boston?" he asked, trying not to let his disappointment show.

"Yes, of course," she assured him quickly. She reached out across the table for his hand, and he gave it to her, relieved. "I don't care where we are, as long as we're together." She swallowed. "I just... I wanted to make sure that... that you hadn't changed your mind."

Charles could feel her fingers trembling slightly in his, and it dismayed him. Didn't she think he was in earnest?

"Malone," he said very seriously. "There's something you should know." Still holding her hand securely in his, he looked directly in her eyes. "I realize that it's a bit premature for me to be saying this, considering this is only our first date, but... I want you with me, always. On that one point I am absolutely certain." He squeezed her fingers gently, giving her physical reassurance along with his words. "There are no plans for my future which don't include you."

Her eyes filled with tears, and he moved to embrace her. "No, please, don't," she said quickly, waving him away with an embarrassed laugh. "I'll cry for sure, and I've done more than enough crying over the past few days." Charles smiled in understanding, and she cleared her throat. "It's your move."

Obediently, he set down one of his pieces. Dimly, he was aware that the record had played to its end, but he was more interested in Malone. As she leaned over the board, contemplating her next move, he found himself incapable of taking his eyes off her. She looked so beautiful, with the soft light from the candles dancing over her bare shoulders and reflecting off her striking red hair.

"By God, woman," he murmured, unable to help himself. "You steal my very breath away."

Her cheeks colored slightly at his ardent tone. "And you, sir," she told him, "are far more handsome than you have any right to be."

"Ah," he said with a droll smile, "how time flies. It seems like only yesterday you were prodding me in the chest with that little index finger of yours and drunkenly declaring that I was a 'big, fat jerk'."

A laugh escaped her lips. "Yes, well," she mumbled sheepishly, "I'd sort of hoped you had forgotten about that."

"Not a chance," he said with a wicked smirk. She laughed again, rolling her eyes. He looked at her carefully. "In all seriousness, do you really... find me attractive?" At her surprised look, he went on hastily. "I merely ask, because... Well, the fact is, I am considerably older than you."

Malone's eyes widened in shock. "You are? How _much_ older?"

Charles raised an eyebrow at her. "Malone, are you being deliberately obtuse?"

"That depends," she replied. "What does 'obtuse' mean?" He sighed, and she gave a chuckle. "I'm kidding, Charles. You're not that much older than me. Ten years is hardly a generational gap." She shrugged. "Besides, Jane Eyre was a lot younger than Rochester, and things turned out just fine for them."

"Yes, indeed," he said dryly. "After she ran away and almost married her cousin, and his demented wife blinded him and burned his manor to the ground."

"Right," said Malone with a nod. "After that."

Charles was not amused. "Your comparison leaves something to be desired," he muttered.

She smiled. "All joking aside, I do find you attractive. Very much so." He snorted, causing her eyebrows to shoot up. "You seem unconvinced."

"Perhaps I am, a little."

She beckoned him to sit next to her. As he sank down beside her on the bed, she tucked her arm through his. "Charles, you have many wonderful qualities, but modesty is not one of them," she said, her tone gently teasing. She gave his arm a squeeze. "What's troubling you?"

He gazed down at her delicate features, her perfectly painted red lips. "Look at you, Malone," he said, brushing his hand over her cheek. "You're young and vibrant and frustratingly beautiful. And I'm..."

_You're what?_ his mind whispered at him. _You're out of shape and leaning toward middle-aged, with a receding hairline and a bad back. What could she possibly see in you?_

He sighed. "Well, I'm all but three of those things," he said with a regretful smile. "As extremely gratifying as your attentions are, I suppose I can't help wishing I were a bit better suited to you physically."

To her credit, Malone appeared completely taken aback by his confession. "Oh, Charles, I..." She trailed off, giving his arm another tight squeeze. "Last night, you told me that I must have been made for you. I feel the same way. I can hardly believe I was lucky enough to find someone who is my match in every respect. It's like... like you're the other half of me." She shook her head, embarrassed. "I know that sounds trite—"

"Not at all," he told her, pushing his words past the sudden lump in his throat. "You've managed to sum up my feelings perfectly."

She smiled again. "And you say you're not well-suited to me? Of all the damned silly ideas." He returned her smile. "But I don't want to mislead you," she went on. "It's not quite as pure as all that. You should know that I also find you utterly irresistible."

Charles stared at her in surprise. "You do?"

"Are you kidding?" she blurted, with her usual artless candor. "How could I not? Those patrician features, that wonderful, rich voice. And that wry smile." She blushed, clearly unaccustomed to this sort of talk, but she was determined to finish. "To say nothing of these broad shoulders and those ridiculously blue eyes. A girl could get lost in those, I'll have you know."

He smiled, experiencing an almost overwhelming rush of affection for the silly, old-fashioned young woman beside him. "But it's so much more than that," she continued. "You're kind, brilliant, sophisticated, with a devastating wit and a vocabulary that rivals Roget's Thesaurus." He had to chuckle at this. "It's as if God saw my checklist of qualities I find attractive in a man, ticked all the boxes, and said, 'Here you go. Enjoy with my blessing.'"

Quite unexpectedly, Charles felt his pulse quicken at her praise. "Take care, darling," he said, his voice husky. "All this flattery is liable to make me conceited and vain."

Malone graced him with a crooked smile, and he found himself transfixed by the deep red color of her lips. "Oh, well," she murmured, leaning in close. "We certainly can't have that."

Grasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tilted her head back and brought her mouth up to meet his. She sighed softly, melting bonelessly against him and winding her arms around his neck. Her pleasure was so ingenuous, so wonderfully sincere, that it sent a surge of desire coursing through his veins.

"Did I mention your lips?" she whispered. "Because I really should have."

He groaned, pressing her body closer to his. As he kissed her feverishly, his hands moved over her soft shoulders, up her neck, and into her hair, pulling it out of its chignon and letting it fall through his fingers. He felt her own short fingernails graze the nape of his neck, and he gave a shudder, his eyes rolling back in his head in pure, unadulterated bliss.

"Oh, Malone," he murmured. "My sweet, beautiful girl."

"Oh, God, Charles," she breathed, her hands slipping down to grasp his tie. "I love you so much."

The kiss continued to grow in intensity, their hands beginning to wander, their breaths becoming short and labored. This was unlike any of their previous kisses. They had all been chaste and gentle, save for that first kiss on the porch of Mrs. Lim's farmhouse, which already seemed a lifetime ago. But even this felt different. This was laced with urgency, with raw, desperate need.

His head swimming, he shrugged out of his jacket and removed his tie before pulling her against him once again. He kissed her deeply, parting her lips with his, relishing the sensation of her shaky, delicate fingers clutching at his back. As he moved his mouth to the juncture between her neck and shoulder, she moaned, nearly driving him mad.

"Don't stop," she gasped.

"Perish the thought," he whispered against her.

She was so soft and warm in his arms. So trusting. Settling his hands on her waist, he proceeded to shower her skin with reverent kisses, and the sound of her breath catching in her throat was more exquisite than any symphony or aria he had ever heard.

"You were the answer to my prayers, you know," he said between kisses.

She hummed softly, her hand curled behind his neck. "What do you mean?"

His fingers ghosted over her shoulder blades, making her shiver slightly. "Before you came," he said slowly, "I was... very low. I asked God for something, anything to make my life here worth living."

"Oh, Charles." She reached up and cupped the side of his face tenderly. "I never knew that."

He smiled into her skin. "Actually, I asked for beluga caviar. And I got you instead."

With a breathy chuckle, she turned and brushed her lips against his jaw. "Disappointed?"

"Mmm," he murmured, moving her necklace aside and placing another kiss in the hollow of her throat. "I'll muddle through somehow."

She whimpered inarticulately, causing him to grin as he continued to kiss every bit of exposed skin he could find. He had wanted to do this ever since he first laid eyes on her in this dress. Now that the moment had arrived, he could hardly believe it was actually happening. As his lips reached her earlobe, he grazed it lightly with his teeth. Then he felt a shiver of his own as her hands found their way to his shirt collar and began to unfasten the first button.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, causing them to fly apart with a shared gasp. Quickly, Malone snatched her napkin up from the table and made a hurried effort to wipe away her smudged lipstick. "If that's Danny, he is grounded for life," she growled under her breath. "I don't care how old he is."

Charles was in full agreement with her proposal. After wiping hastily at his own lips, he stood up, attempting to smooth the wrinkles out of his clothes. "Who is it?" he called out in a measured tone, trying to gain control of his wildly beating heart.

"It's Potter," came the familiar gravelly voice of the camp's beloved leader.

Charles glanced at Malone, who merely shrugged in confusion. "Come in, Colonel," he replied.

The door swung open, and Potter stepped inside, folding his hands behind his back. "Evening, Major," he said with a nod. "Lieutenant."

He looked around the little room, taking in the flickering candles, Malone's rumpled dress and disheveled hair, and Charles's own suit jacket and tie, which had been tossed haphazardly on the floor. Mercifully, he chose not to comment on them.

"I have some news," he said without preamble. "Winchester, you'd better sit down for this."

Charles frowned in mounting trepidation, but did as he was told, taking a seat on the bed beside Malone. "What is it, Colonel?" he inquired cautiously.

Potter took a deep breath. "Malone is being transferred," he said quietly. "To the Evac hospital in Tokyo."

The colonel's words had the same effect on Charles as a blow to the solar plexus. He looked over at Malone, who appeared to be experiencing a similar affliction. "When?" he managed to ask in a strangled voice.

"As soon as she's strong enough to handle the trip," Potter answered gravely. It was obvious he was not pleased to be the bearer of this particular bit of bad news. "And from there, as you know, it's a one-way ticket back to San Francisco."

Charles was speechless. Objectively, he knew that it was inevitable. There was no way Malone could stay at the 4077th in her condition; it simply wasn't practical. But if he was being truly honest with himself, he had to admit that he had completely failed to prepare for this eventuality. The thought of being parted from _his_ Malone was too much to bear. He wouldn't allow it.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him, igniting him with hope. "Colonel," he said, his tone carefully even, "I respectfully request your permission to accompany Malone to Tokyo, as her attending physician."

But Potter was already shaking his head. "No can do, Major. I'm sorry, but I just can't spare you. Your place is here."

"My place is at her side," Charles fired back, losing his patience.

He felt Malone's hand on his arm. "It's all right, Charles," she told him in a low voice. "I knew I wouldn't be able to keep you all to myself. You're needed here."

Charles exhaled loudly in frustration. This simply couldn't be happening. After everything they had gone through to get to this point, it was inconceivable that they should be separated in this cold, abrupt manner. But he wouldn't give up so easily.

He forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. "If we can find a replacement for me," he said, "will you reconsider?"

The colonel sighed. "I'll see what I can do," he replied. "Just keep in mind that I can't make any promises. So try not to get your hopes up."

Charles nodded, and Potter regarded him with a sympathetic look. Stepping forward, he laid a hand on each of their shoulders. "I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you," he said softly. "I really am."

After bidding them both good night, he turned and left the tent. Immediately Charles pulled Malone into his arms, drawing her close. As she buried her face into his shirtfront, he rubbed her back soothingly, trying his best not to yield to the devastation that threatened to engulf him.

"I believe it's still your move," he heard himself say, staring numbly at their unfinished game of Go on the table.

Malone tightened her hold on him. "Let's just say you won," she murmured.

He closed his eyes, letting his fingers sink into her thick hair as he rested his chin on top of her head.

_Then why does it feel like I've lost?_

* * *

A/N: Sherman Potter, Date Ruiner. Coming to a steamy rendezvous near you.

So, there are two things I wanted to address at this point. The first is Charles's age in this story. Apparently, when David Ogden Stiers joined the cast of _M*A*S*H_, he was thirty-five. (_Younger_ than Alan Alda! I had no idea.) Of course, by the time the series ended, he was six years older. So I decided to split the difference and say he's thirty-eight. It seemed reasonable.

The other thing, which I imagine some of you have been wondering about, is the matter of Martine. Personally, I think she's adorable, but she's also a little problematic; at least, where this story is concerned. And so, as much as I hate defying canon, I'm choosing not to mention her in this story. If you like, you can pretend that she and Charles met before Nellie came to the 4077th. I realize that at that point, Klinger had been made a sergeant, but we can stretch our imaginations a little. After all, the _M*A*S*H_ writers didn't always stick to canon, either. Eleven years' worth of episodes is a lot to cram into a three-and-a-half-year war.

Anyway, that was all. Please leave a review, if you have the time. Reviews are lovely. And Happy Labor Day! Treat yourself to an episode of _M*A*S*H_ on me.

-Octopus


	27. The Most Inconvenient War in History

A/N: Wow, I hadn't realized that this story had reached the 200,000-word mark! How did _that_ escape my notice until now? Of course, that's including all of my rambling author's notes, but still. Where has my life gone!?

I'm only kidding, of course. I don't regret the time and effort I've put into this story in the slightest. The support and encouragement of you, my readers, has made it all worth it. Thank you all. And thank you, **blown-transistor**, for all your help, as well as your patience in sifting through my interminable chapters for mistakes. :)

Hey, I almost forgot. The fortieth anniversary of the airing of _M*A*S*H_'s first episode was a few days ago. Happy Anniversary, favorite show ever!

Disclaimer: I do not pretend to own _M*A*S*H_. Well, okay, sometimes I do. But in reality, I really don't.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Most Inconvenient War in History

Sherman Potter was not a picky man. When it came to food, he was willing to eat just about anything, as long as it wasn't still moving. That was to be expected. He was a soldier, after all. In the Army, you gulped down whatever you were given, and you didn't ask questions. More often than not, you were better off not knowing.

If there was one thing he just couldn't stomach, though, it was chipped beef on toast. The mere sight of it made him want to upchuck. It was bad enough that it looked like it had already been partially digested. But it was also one of the main staples of troops in the field. Potter couldn't even count the number of times he'd had to force it down his throat during the span of his military career. In his humble opinion, chips belonged on poker tables, not on one's plate.

Incredibly, he had known men who couldn't get enough of the slop. Then again, they were the kind of men you'd expect to throw the pin and keep the grenade.

Potter lifted his gaze from the unappetizing mess on the tray in front of him and looked up at his subordinates. Unsurprisingly, most of them were eyeing their own trays with mistrust, as if they expected their contents to grab them and pull them under. Oh, well. At least he didn't have to suffer alone.

Beside him, Klinger threw down his fork with a clatter. "Permission to starve, Colonel," he said, looking slightly green.

"Permission denied, Corporal," Potter replied, picking up the fork and forcing it into the clerk's hand. "Eat up. You're a growing boy."

Across the table from him, Hunnicutt shook his head. "The only thing growing around here is my revulsion." He gave his meal a few desultory stabs with his own fork, causing several droplets to spatter onto Father Mulcahy. "How can they do this to us? This isn't food. It's aggravated assault on the senses."

"I've got to admit," Potter conceded, inspecting a misshapen wad of beef he had just uncovered, "this looks an awful lot like something I dug out of Sophie's hoof the other day."

"You never know, Colonel," said Hunnicutt. "Our cook's motto _is_ 'Waste not, want not.'"

Next to him, Mulcahy sighed and pushed his tray away. "And just like that, I've lost my appetite."

Hunnicutt smiled guiltily. "Sorry, Father. You don't think you could ask the man upstairs for some manna, could you?"

"At this point," the priest said wryly, "I'd settle for a few locusts with wild honey."

Hunnicutt gave a sad shake of his head. "So it's come to this. Our chaplain's gone buggy."

Briefly, Potter considered holding his nose to make the foul substance easier to stomach, but that would only make him appear weak in front of the men. So instead, he willed himself to pick up his fork and bravely dug in. Later, in the privacy of his office, he would treat himself to one of Mildred's macaroons to get the taste out of his mouth.

In contrast, the orphans from Sister Theresa's were shoveling it in like it was the finest chow they'd ever eaten. That was more than all right with Potter, as long as they didn't mind the taste. The sooner those kids ate the last of that stuff, the better.

Other than the food, though, it was a gorgeous day. More than anything, he wished he could duck out of camp for a few hours and take Sophie for a ride, but he had far too much to do. Besides trying to find a local orphanage large enough to take Sister Theresa's kids, there was still the matter of finding a replacement for Winchester. He had already been on the phone for hours at a time over the past few days, without success. It seemed none of the neighboring units could spare any of their surgeons, even on a temporary basis. Potter couldn't really blame them. He was in the same position himself.

Needless to say, he was not looking forward to running into either Winchester or Malone. The truth was, he felt terrible. It wasn't merely the fact that he was their commanding officer, and he was letting them down. But he understood how Winchester felt. If Mildred had to check into the hospital, Potter would want to be by her side, too. It just wasn't right. Winchester had finally found a reason not to be miserable, and she was being taken away from him.

Right on cue, the door of the mess tent opened, and Danny Malone held it ajar as the Bostonian surgeon entered, pushing his precious charge in her wheelchair. The sight of the three of them tugged at Potter's heartstrings. At least, he told himself, Malone's younger brother hadn't been required to return to his unit. After being informed of the current situation, the boy's own commanding officer had agreed to allow him to stay at the 4077th until his sister left for Tokyo. Unfortunately, however long that proved to be, it still wouldn't be long enough.

The colonel watched as Winchester wheeled Malone through the mess line, piling food on her tray as she looked on with a furrowed brow and a wrinkled nose. She made a remark, presumably about the kitchen's latest offering, and Winchester gave a bark of laughter. Potter had to admit, they made one hell of a cute couple.

He had to hand it to the major. He had been very attentive to the girl — waiting on her hand and foot, anticipating her every need, hardly leaving her side. It reminded Potter of the time the autoclave had blown, and Klinger had saved Winchester by pushing him out of the way. The incident had left the corporal with a busted nose and the major with a bad case of survivor's guilt. Determined to repay the selfless act, Winchester had taken over his duties, brought him his meals, and even read to him. Of course, this situation was slightly different. Unlike Klinger, Malone wasn't playing on Winchester's remorse and milking it for all it was worth.

Klinger gave a dismal sigh beside him, his gaze fixed on the redhead. "God, I'm going to miss that girl," he said morosely.

"Yes, it's going to be difficult to see her go," Mulcahy agreed quietly.

Potter felt another twinge of guilt. If it were up to him, Malone would stay just where she was, but that was simply out of the question. The doctors in Tokyo would no doubt want to determine the full extent of her nerve damage, and decide on a treatment, if one was even possible. There was a chance, however slight, that the paralysis was not permanent. If the nerves were severed, however, there was nothing anyone could do.

Hunnicutt had scraped off the majority of his chipped beef onto his tray and was munching on the toast. "You know we can't let her leave without throwing her a going-away party," he said, his mouth full.

"You bet we can't," Klinger said firmly. "Not after the lousy way we had to say goodbye to Radar. It still burns me up that he didn't even get a proper send-off before he left."

Potter was glad he wasn't the only one who still thought about that.

"It's got to be really special," Klinger went on. "Not just another mess tent mixer, where everybody gets bombed on cheap booze and then forgets everything about it the next morning. Nellie deserves better than that."

"Let me know if there's anything I can do to help," said Mulcahy.

"Maybe we should ask Danny to pitch in, too," Hunnicutt suggested. "He'd probably have some great ideas, especially since—"

Klinger raised a warning finger to his lips, and the blond surgeon quickly fell silent as Winchester and the Malone siblings came to join them. As Potter watched, the major parked the nurse's wheelchair at the end of the table and set her tray before her, even going so far as to place a napkin across her lap. Everyone greeted Malone warmly, and Potter couldn't help noticing that, aside from her obvious injury, she was looking better than she had in weeks. He supposed it had something to do with that giddy smile on her face.

Drat. How were they ever going to convince anyone that she wasn't well enough to travel yet, if she insisted on looking so damned happy?

Predictably, Winchester wasted no time in getting to the point. "Well, Colonel, what news?" he asked, in a tone that suggested he didn't want to know the answer. "Have you had any success in finding a replacement for me?"

Potter lifted his coffee mug to his lips and sipped at it slowly — as if he could somehow avoid telling them, as long as the coffee didn't run out. Finally he set down his mug with a sigh. "I'm afraid not," he said quietly.

Though they must have known it was too much to hope for, neither Winchester nor Malone could conceal their disappointment. "Now, don't look so glum," he told them. "I haven't given up yet, not by a long shot. I'll keep calling around. Even if you can't go with Malone to Tokyo, I might be able to get you there a few days later."

But Winchester was shaking his head. "How very odd," he muttered to Malone. "I distinctly recall him telling us not to get our hopes up, don't you?"

She simply gave a wan smile. "We appreciate all of your efforts, Colonel, but please don't feel obligated to bend over backwards for us. It won't be the end of the world if Charles has to stay here."

_No,_ thought Potter, seeing the tears glistening in her eyes, _it'll only feel like it._

Thankfully, Hunnicutt took it upon himself to change the subject. "Anyone know how much longer the kids will be with us?"

The colonel wiped his lips and placed his napkin on top of his food, to hide the fact that he'd barely touched it. "Hopefully not much longer. Not that I mind having them here," he added quickly, "but a hospital full of bleeding soldiers is no place for children. I think I may have found a place for them, though. There's an orphanage just outside of Inchon that's big enough to take them. The trouble is, they're a little short-handed. But maybe with Sister Theresa's help, they'll be able to manage the munchkins."

Malone shook her head. "I don't know how she does it," she said, sipping her coffee. "It was all I could do to keep Danny from getting into trouble, and there's only _one_ of him."

Danny shot her an indignant look. "When was I ever in trouble?"

"Does jumping off the roof ring any bells?" she asked him dryly, arching an eyebrow.

He rolled his eyes at her in a way that only a cherished younger sibling could get away with. "Are you ever going to let that go?"

"How can I?" she retorted in exasperation. "You scared me half to death. I wanted to keep you on a leash until you were eighteen." Winchester gave a chuckle, and she turned to him. "What about your sister, Honoria? Did she ever get into any mischief?"

The major was silent for a moment, contemplating her question. "When she was about thirteen," he said at length, "she went through a rather inconvenient phase. She'd gotten it into her head that she was going to be a world-renowned pastry chef. Of course, she knew nothing whatever about baking. She couldn't even toast bread without setting something or some_one_ on fire." He took a sip of his coffee and winced at the taste. "But she was fiercely determined, and completely convinced of her own success. That is, until she decided to make _crème brûlée_."

"Oh, sweet mother of mercy," Malone blurted, her bandaged hand flying to her mouth.

Klinger frowned in confusion. "What? What's that?"

"It's a rich sort of custard," the nurse explained, "with a crust of caramelized sugar on top. To form the crust, you have to expose the sugar to very high heat. Like a broiler, or a blow-torch."

"In this instance, it was the latter," said Winchester. "However, what seemed to be a fairly straight-forward procedure unfortunately backfired on her. Quite literally." He snorted, trying to hold back a smile. "I shall never forget the look on her poor little face when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a copper saucepan and discovered that..." He shook with barely suppressed laughter. "That her eyebrows were missing."

Everyone at the table dissolved into hysterics. "Oh, no," Malone gasped, removing her glasses and wiping at her eyes. "Oh, that's not funny at all. Why am I laughing?"

"Was she all right?" asked Hunnicutt.

"Of course," Winchester answered. "Only singed a bit around the edges. But from that moment onward, she resolved to leave the kitchen in less accident-prone hands than her own."

Danny reached over and gave his sister a light shove on the arm. "Why didn't you ever make _crème brûlée_ for us, Ginger?"

She shoved him back. "Because you don't even like custard, that's why."

"True," he conceded, "but the texture could be overlooked, if it meant getting to cook with an open flame."

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. "If you honestly think I would have allowed you anywhere near a blow-torch, you're out of your mind," she said with a crooked smile. "You're lucky I let you help when I made Toll House cookies."

The boy groaned. "Please, Nell. Don't talk about Toll House cookies when I'm looking at..." He trailed off, prodding the muck on his tray. "What is this again?"

"Oh, yes, that's right, Nellie," said Mulcahy. "I seem to remember you saying that those were your favorite thing to make on a cold day."

"Or _any_ day," said Danny. "Sure, we always made a mess, but they always came out perfect." He gave a rapturous sigh. "Like looking into the face of God."

The priest nearly choked on his coffee. "Oh, dear," he said, when he had recovered. "Descriptive, if somewhat blasphemous."

Suddenly Klinger exploded from the table to his feet, startling the living daylights out of Potter. "Excuse me, sirs," he said quickly. "Danny, Nellie." He hastily made his exit, not even bothering to take his tray with him.

Danny watched him go, a puzzled frown on his freckled face. Slowly, he looked down at his own tray. Then he gave a low whistle. "The food must be worse than I thought."

* * *

Trying to talk to Sal Pernelli, the camp cook, was a little like going to the dentist. Except, unlike going to the dentist, there was no accompanying sense of satisfaction that comes with knowing that you made the right choice.

Hardly anyone could tolerate the man's company for more than a few minutes at a time. One reason for this was that he was to blame for the slop that passed for food at the 4077th. It was unfathomable that anyone could consistently prepare such mediocre meals and stand to live with themselves, but Pernelli didn't seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, it was the subject of several rumors in the camp. There were people who swore up and down that the only explanation for his apathy toward the terrible food was that he had no sense of taste — that he had been in the circus in his youth as a fire-eater, and had singed off all of his tastebuds.

It didn't help that he was nearly impossible to talk to. He invariably kept to himself, except on the rare occasions when his presence was required. And even then, it was clear that he would prefer to be anywhere else. He was disagreeable, unpleasant, and possibly even a little mad. That was Sal Pernelli in a nutshell.

And Klinger had a favor to ask of him.

"Nope," was the only word Pernelli uttered in response to his query.

Klinger resisted the urge to kick something over. It wasn't even the refusal that irked him. It was the brusque, instantaneous manner in which it was delivered. No apology. Not even a contemplative pause while he weighed the request in his mind. Just a flat, final _Nope_.

Well, Maxwell Q. Klinger was not one to take _Nope_ for an answer. "That's it?" he asked, incredulous. "That's all you have to say? 'Nope'?"

"Nope. I can say other things." He raised a belligerent eyebrow, which was the closest he ever came to a smile. "See what I did there?"

"Very funny," Klinger said dryly.

The cook just shrugged, going about his task of preparing dinner as if Klinger wasn't even there. At the moment, he was stirring an enormous pot filled with what could have been gravy, except that it smelled more like rotten cabbage.

"Come on, it'll be great," Klinger persisted, refusing to give up. "When was the last time you got to make something _good_ for a change?" Pernelli shot him a glare, and he realized his slip. "I mean... Well, you know I mean." He sighed. "Have a heart, Sal. Nellie's going to be leaving in a few days. Don't you want her going-away party to be memorable?"

Pernelli wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Who's Nellie?"

Klinger stared at him in disbelief, receiving a blank look in return. "Nellie Malone. One of the nurses." Pernelli only continued to stare in incomprehension. "You know. Cute little thing. Curly red hair, cat-eye glasses. Looks kind of like Myrna Loy."

"Who's Myrna Loy?"

He decided to try a different approach. "Look," he said, after taking a deep breath, "it's just a few batches of cookies. How hard can that be?"

"Not hard," Pernelli answered as returned his attention to his foul-smelling cauldron of evil. "I just can't do it."

Klinger wanted to tear his hair out. "Why not?" he exclaimed.

"Don't have the ingredients."

The clerk exhaled loudly in frustration. "I'm no expert, but there can't be all that much to cookies. Flour, sugar, eggs—"

"And chocolate," Pernelli finished, still stirring. "Can't make chocolate chip cookies without chocolate. And we ain't got any."

At this Klinger broke out into a grin of relief. "Is that all?" The cook nodded shortly. "If I can get my hands on some chocolate, will you make the cookies?"

Pernelli stopped stirring. "Okay," he conceded at last. "If you can get your hands on some chocolate, I will make the cookies." Klinger grinned again and slapped him on the shoulder, and he merely gave another shrug. "Why not? I always liked Nellie."

Klinger frowned in confusion. "But I thought you said you didn't... Oh, forget it," he muttered. There was no point in arguing with the man. Clearly, he was out of his mind.

Shaking his head, he turned and hurried out of the kitchen and into the compound. In his haste to escape the smell, he failed to look where he was going, and collided into Hawkeye, sending them both sprawling on the hard, dusty ground.

"Ouch," said Klinger, wincing. "Sorry, Captain."

Hawkeye waved dismissively as the clerk helped him to his feet. "Officer, I saw the vehicle that hit me," he said in a dazed voice, swaying slightly for dramatic effect. "It was a green-and-brown coupé of Lebanese manufacture, with an out-of-tune horn." He made a honking sound as he reached up and squeezed Klinger's nose.

Klinger batted his hand away in irritation. Deep down, he was actually rather sensitive about his most prominent facial feature. He tried his best not to let all the comments get to him, but it didn't always work. "That's a good one," he said sarcastically. "I'll try to remember to laugh later."

He tried to leave, but Hawkeye caught him by the arm. "Where's the fire? Is Sears having a sale on ladies' activewear?" He clutched at the sleeve of his field jacket. "Resist the urge, Klinger. You've been doing so well. Don't fall off the wagon now."

"Will you lay off?" Klinger exclaimed, wriggling out of the surgeon's grasp. "I've got about a thousand things to do to get ready for this party." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the other man. "You haven't said anything about it to Nellie, have you?"

"Don't worry, my lips are sealed," Hawkeye assured him, dusting himself off. "Which is a new experience for me, by the way."

"And Major Winchester?"

"He knows all about it," he replied. "He's on distraction detail. Although I doubt it will be much of a hardship for him."

The clerk nodded absently. Ever since the awful, gut-wrenching day that Nellie had been injured, Winchester had hardly let her out of his sight. More than once, Klinger had even seen the major reach out and touch her on the hand or the arm, for no other reason than to reassure himself of her solidity. It was quite a change, after weeks of watching him feign indifference toward the girl. But Winchester wasn't fooling anyone anymore, and this didn't seem to bother him a bit. He loved Nellie, and he didn't care who knew it.

Klinger shook his head, reproaching himself for getting sidetracked. He could analyze Winchester's character later. Right now he had work to do.

After bidding Hawkeye a hasty farewell, he made his way quickly across the compound and into his office. He peeked through the little window into Potter's office, making sure the colonel wasn't using the telephone, before crossing the room and seating himself at his desk. For a moment, he stared down at the phone, trying to decide who to call first.

As he was sitting there, the door to the compound swung open, and Danny slipped inside, looking furtively over his shoulder as he did so. "Hey, Klinger," he said in a hushed voice. "How are we doing?"

Klinger couldn't help but smile. From the way the kid was sneaking around, one would think he was preparing to pull off a big jewel heist or something. "I'm still working on refreshments right now," he told him. "But I've got the entertainment lined up. I just hope you're right about the movie."

Danny nodded firmly. "I am. It's her favorite. Although she doesn't know that _I_ know it's her favorite."

He blinked. "Say what?"

"Never mind. Just trust me on this." The boy strolled over to Klinger's desk, his hands in his pockets. He started to say something, and then hesitated, gnawing on his lip. "Listen," he said at last. "I meant to ask you earlier. How are _you_ doing with all this?" Klinger raised his eyebrows, not understanding the question. "Nellie and Winchester, I mean," he clarified.

"Oh." He smiled again, giving a light shrug. "I'm okay with it, I guess. I mean, me and Major Winchester—"

"Major Winchester and _I_," Danny corrected him automatically.

Klinger rolled his eyes. "Boy, you're just like your sister, aren't you?" The kid grinned sheepishly. "Major Winchester and _I_," he went on dryly, "well, we aren't exactly best buddies, but he's all right. For a spoiled rich boy." Danny chuckled under his breath. "I'm just glad Nellie's found someone who can appreciate her. The way she _deserves_ to be appreciated."

Danny regarded him with a curious expression, his eyebrows drawn together, his forehead slightly puckered. "Nell wasn't the one who broke things off between you, was she?" he asked, his voice low. "It was you. You knew it couldn't work, so you let her go."

The clerk felt his face grow warm. He knew there was no point in denying it. "You got me, kid," he said with a slight, rueful smile. "How'd you know?"

It was Danny's turn to shrug. "Just a feeling I had," he replied. He continued to stare at Klinger with that same odd expression, as if he were seeing him for the first time. Slowly, a quirky, lop-sided, Malonesque smile spread over his face. "That was downright decent of you, Max," he said quietly.

Klinger gave a feeble laugh, trying not to show how moved he was by the boy's words. "Yeah, I know. Pretty pathetic, huh?" He cleared his throat. "If you'll excuse me, I've got about a million favors to call in."

Danny reached out and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I won't keep you. I've got to track down Father Mulcahy. I thought of a couple more songs to add to the program." He grinned suddenly. "Thank God he's Irish. He knows nearly all of them by heart already." Klinger laughed, and he headed for the door. "See you later."

"Later, kid."

He watched the boy leave, then turned back to the phone on his desk. After a moment, he picked up the handset and held it up to his ear.

"Sparky? Klinger here. Remember when you blindsided me with that whole mess with the blankets and the case of scotch, and I decided _not_ to kill you? Well, you still owe me one, pal."

* * *

It was early evening, and the Officers' Club was nearly empty. This was most unusual for the time of day; typically, it was abuzz with conversation and lively music, issuing from the old jukebox against the wall, or being coaxed from the piano by the company chaplain. Tonight, however, it was strangely deserted. Not even the children from the orphanage were present to fill the club with their noisy chatter. Only two figures occupied the room, seated at a little table in the corner, and the soothing strains of Mozart's _Violin Concerto no. 5_ were the only sounds to be heard in the still, tranquil space.

As Heifetz continued to draw those sweet notes from his violin and into the air, Charles Winchester released a long, deep sigh of contentment. This was how an Officers' Club was _supposed_ to be.

Across the table from him, on the other side of his Go board, Fenella Malone sat with her chin on her hand, contemplating her next move. She was wearing a pale green blouse and a tweed skirt, borrowed from one of the other nurses; her Army-issue trousers were too hard to wear with her cast. There was a faint smile playing over her lips, as if she were planning a particularly dastardly strategy in her head. Charles wouldn't have it any other way.

He wondered if she suspected anything. She hadn't seemed to notice that anything was amiss; or if she had, she hadn't commented on it. He supposed she must have at least some inkling that something was going on, simply from the fact that they were actually alone together. Over the past few days, it seemed the entire population of the 4077th had paid Malone a visit, including several people whom Charles was certain had never spoken to her before. They had given her flowers, cards, and their best wishes for a speedy recovery. But today, no one had come to see her, aside from her brother.

Not that Charles minded. On the contrary, he was immensely glad to be alone with her at last. While the camp's concern for her was touching, it was not entirely welcome on his part. Malone had very little time left at the 4077th, and he wanted as much quality time with her as possible. He knew it was selfish, that he was not the only one who cared about her, but he couldn't help it. He wanted her all to himself.

Hell, who was he trying to fool? He just _wanted_ her.

Ever since their date, which had been so cruelly cut short by Colonel Potter's devastating announcement, Charles could not stop wondering what might have happened if they had not been interrupted. He had to admit, he hadn't exactly been in control at the time. Especially during that breathless moment when he had felt Malone's little fingers start to unbutton his shirt. Good _God_, how he had wanted her then. Had she fully realized what she had been doing? Did she have any idea what she did to him?

He took a deep breath, hoping she wouldn't notice when it hitched in his throat. His need for her was becoming almost unbearable. But how could he possibly act on it? He knew, from comments he had heard her make here and there, that she was a virgin. There was no way he could take that from her. Not unless she was absolutely certain. He had assured her, after all, that he would never do anything to make her uncomfortable. Besides, there was still the unavoidable matter of her leg. That cast would make intimacy difficult, at best.

There was no point in thinking about it. No point in torturing himself. She was not ready; that much he knew. The only course of action was to banish those thoughts from his mind.

Easier said than done.

Try as he might, he was finding that simply being with her was not enough. He couldn't seem to stop _touching_ her. Even now, as they sat across from each other, his knee was pressed firmly against hers under the table. He knew he was pressing his luck, but he couldn't bring himself to move. That one point of contact was all that was keeping him from pulling her into his lap, cast and all, and kissing that gloriously crooked smile right off her face.

Suddenly she gave a low chuckle, jolting him guiltily out of his thoughts. "Did I ever tell you that I tried learning to play the violin?" she asked conversationally.

Charles cleared his throat. "Did you?" he said, grateful for the distraction. "No, I didn't know that."

She nodded, her chin still in her hand. "I was in high school at the time. I took lessons for three years before I finally realized it was all just a hopeless dream, and I was wasting my time." She quirked a slight, self-deprecating smile. "I never got any good at it."

"I find that somewhat difficult to believe," he said, returning her smile.

Malone chuckled again, and he shifted in his seat. For some reason, her low, husky laugh was having a very different effect on him than usual. "You wouldn't if you had heard me play," she told him. "It sounded like an alley cat in its death throes."

"Perhaps you simply had the wrong teacher," he managed to say.

"Well, that's possible," she conceded. As she placed a white stone on the board, Charles did his best to focus on her words. "Mrs. Rawlins," she said reflectively. "What a scary, scary woman she was. Her entire house was pink. The wallpaper, the carpet, the curtains, the furniture. Even her hair was pink." She shuddered at the remembrance. "And she had the most ridiculous ideas about music. She actually told me once that she thought Mozart lacked emotional depth."

This got Charles's attention. "_What?_" he blurted in disbelief. "Did you tell her that she was a narrow-minded Philistine?"

Another low laugh. "No, but I was tempted to ask her if she was out of her mind."

"She must have been," he muttered. "The man was a genius. He was writing sonatas at three years old. A full opera at twelve."

"I know. It's unfathomable to me, too." She gave an irritated snort, clearly still perturbed at her teacher's remark, even now. "How could anyone say his music lacked depth? Yes, some of it was light-hearted, but he was a very cheerful person. That doesn't mean _all_ of his music was like that."

"Quite right," Charles agreed with dignity. "His masses and symphonies are among the most moving I've ever heard. I'm not overly emotional, but the 'Kyrie' from his _Mass in C minor_ is so beautiful, so utterly sublime, that I have to remind myself to breathe every time I listen to it."

He picked up one of his own black stones and thought a moment before placing it on the grid. When he looked up, he found Malone staring at him with a rather interesting expression. Her cheeks were slightly pink, and she was gnawing on her lower lip.

"What is it?" he asked, frowning.

She shook her head slightly, though her blush deepened. "Nothing," she said a little too casually, averting her eyes. "I just love the look on your face when you talk about music, that's all. You're so..." She hesitated, clearing her throat. "Passionate."

She raised her eyes and gazed up at him through her thick lashes, and his mouth abruptly went dry. Out of nowhere, an image of her lying underneath him flashed through his mind, flushed and panting, full lips parted, her red hair wild and tousled...

Suddenly the Officers' Club felt very warm. "I'm afraid," said Charles, his voice slightly rough, "in this instance, the music is not to blame, but rather... the company."

He saw her throat move as she swallowed. Slowly, she lowered her hand and reached across the table, resting it on top of his. For a moment, Charles simply sat motionless, returning her steady gaze, his stillness at odds with the pounding of his heart.

Was it possible? Did she feel as he did? Dare he even hope?

Gathering Malone's small hand in his, he brought it to his lips, kissing it slowly. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and a soft sigh escaped her. Encouraged, he kissed each fingertip, one by one, before pressing another kiss into her open palm. He watched, mesmerized, as her teeth worried her bottom lip again. As he moved his attention to the inside of her wrist, he could feel her racing pulse beneath his own lips.

Dear God.

Rising from his seat, he started to lean across the table, and she met him halfway, grabbing his collar and pulling him closer until their lips met in a searing kiss. His hands went to her shoulders, feeling her heated skin through her blouse, and he shuddered as he felt her hands delve into his hair, mussing it. As he drew her abused lower lip into his mouth, she gave a low moan, her nails dragging across his scalp. He heard an answering groan, and was surprised to realize it had come from his own throat.

"Oh, my goodness!" came a sudden voice.

Charles released Malone quickly and pulled away to see Father Mulcahy standing in the open doorway, looking as if he were about to expire from embarrassment. "Forgive me, I, I didn't mean to interrupt," he stammered, his eyes darting everywhere except in their direction.

"Father," said Charles, his voice cracking on the word. "What... perfect timing." He cleared his throat. "Good evening."

The priest smiled sheepishly. "Good evening." As he spoke, Klinger appeared in the doorway beside him. "Don't mind us. We're just taking the piano over to the mess tent. The children have asked to hear a few songs."

Of course. That was the signal that everyone was waiting to surprise Malone with her going-away party. Charles had completely forgotten.

"There's no need to move the piano, Father," she was saying as Klinger and Mulcahy began to push the heavy instrument toward the door. "The kids are more than welcome to come in here."

"It's no trouble at all," Mulcahy assured her. As they left the Officers' Club with the piano, he raised his hand and tipped his hat with a pleasant smile. "Goodbye now."

And with that, they were alone once again. As they stared at each other across the table, a slow smile crept over Malone's face. She began to chuckle, and Charles found himself joining in her laughter.

"Shall we join them?" he suggested.

She reached out and took his hand. "Must we?" she asked softly. "I'd much rather stay here with you."

_As would I,_ thought Charles, his pulse quickening again. "Be that as it may," he said, "your time here is rapidly coming to a close. Perhaps it would be wise to make an appearance, at least for a short while. For the sake of your friends."

"Since when did you become the sociable one?" she asked dryly. He squeezed her knee under the table, and she gave a yelp. "Oh, fine. You're right, of course."

"Naturally."

Malone laughed again. "Besides," she added as he stood up and moved behind her wheelchair, "I don't think our game has any hope of being salvaged."

Charles looked at his Go board and let out a laugh of his own. The black and white pieces were scattered all over the table.

A light, misty rain was beginning to fall outside. As he quickly wheeled her across the compound, he was glad she couldn't see the smile on his face. He was certain now that she had no idea what was coming. This would indeed be a night to remember.

Outside the mess tent, he paused and cleared his throat loudly. "Would somebody have the kindness to get the door, please?" he called.

As if by magic, the double doors swung open on their hinges. Malone craned her neck to look at him, her brow furrowed. "What on earth...?"

He merely shrugged impassively as he pushed her inside.

"_Surprise!_"

At the great collective shout, Malone nearly leaped out of her chair, her hand pressed to her chest. There was mingled laughter and applause as she took in her surroundings with wide eyes. Nearly every member of the 4077th was there, as well as Sister Theresa and the children. The mess tent itself was decorated with streamers and balloons. On one wall, there was an enormous banner which read, "Goodbye, Red", surrounded by dozens of crimson paper hearts.

As Malone sat speechless, her hand covering her mouth, Pierce stepped forward with a mischievous grin. "Well, well, it's about time the guest of honor arrived," he said. "Thought you could hog her all to yourself, eh, Charles?"

"I must confess, the thought did cross my mind," he replied with a smile.

Malone looked up at him sharply. "You were part of this, Charles?" she asked, when she could manage to speak.

"That he was," confirmed Hunnicutt. "He played it pretty well, didn't he?"

"_Too_ well," she said wryly, swatting Charles lightly on the arm. He merely smirked indulgently and squeezed her shoulder. "I don't know what to say," she went on, her voice thick. "Thank you all so much. This is... This is staggering."

"Don't thank us yet!" shouted a voice from the back. Malone grinned as Klinger came forward, pushing his way through the crowd. He held a covered platter in one hand. "Not until Mademoiselle has tried the main course. Tonight we're breaking with tradition and having dessert first."

He lifted the cover with an extravagant flourish, and the smell of freshly baked goods filled the air. Charles wouldn't have thought it possible, but Malone's eyes widened even further behind her glasses. "Toll House cookies?" she asked in disbelief.

"Compliments of the cook," said Klinger. "They're Pernelli's greatest triumph. Go ahead, do the honors."

She reached out and plucked a cookie from the platter. As she took a bite and chewed slowly, her eyes slid shut in sheer bliss.

Lieutenant Kellye laughed at the look on her face. "I think that means they get the Nellie Malone Seal of Approval."

"All right, pass the rest around," Klinger called. More platters were produced, piled high with fresh cookies, and they were quickly dispersed among the crowd. Klinger placed the first platter in Malone's lap. "Don't spend them all in one place," he said with a wink.

She shook her head, smiling warmly. "Thank you, Max."

As everyone milled around the mess tent, munching on cookies, Charles pulled up a bench and sat down beside Malone. "Here, take some of these," she said, offering the platter to him. "Otherwise I'm going to make myself sick."

"Now wouldn't that be amusing to watch?" he asked teasingly. She rolled her eyes, and he obediently took a cookie. How had she once described the ones she and Danny used to make? _Warm and gooey, with the chocolate melting all over our fingers._ They were everything she'd said they were.

He was in the process of wiping a stray blob of chocolate from the corner of her lips with his finger when Colonel Potter stepped forward, and the mess tent went suddenly silent.

"Lieutenant Malone," he said with a nod.

She blinked slowly, but returned his nod. "Hello, Colonel," she replied.

"I'm sorry I can't stay for the rest of your shin-dig, little lady," he continued, "but I've got to get back to the patients in Post-Op. But before I go, I have something for you."

He turned and made a beckoning gesture, and little Soo-Min came forward, holding a small, blue velvet box in her tiny hands. She held the box out to Malone, who took it uncertainly. As she opened the hinged lid and gazed down at its contents, she let out a gasp. Inside was a Distinguished Service Cross.

Charles looked up from the box to stare at Potter in surprise. He'd had no prior knowledge of any of this.

"I got that in World War Two," the colonel explained, "for rescuing four of my buddies from a fox-hole under heavy enemy fire. I'd like you to have it."

Malone shook her head adamantly, her curls flying everywhere. "Sir, I can't accept this," she protested.

"Like hell you can't," he said firmly. "You risked your life to save over a dozen orphaned children, Malone. I don't know if you realize it, but that's nothing to sneeze at." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "You may be a little thing, but you're as brave as any soldier I've ever known."

She blinked back tears. "Colonel..."

With a smile, Potter reached out and took the box gently from her hands. "Second Lieutenant Fenella Malone," he said formally, "for your extraordinary heroism, I hereby award you the Distinguished Service Cross, the second highest decoration the United States military can bestow." He removed the medal from its box and attached it with much ceremony to the collar of her blouse. "It looks a lot better on you, anyway," he whispered, giving her a conspiratorial wink.

Everyone burst into cheers and applause. As Malone began to wipe at her damp cheeks, Charles silently offered her his handkerchief, his heart swelling with pride.

After the applause died down, Danny climbed up on one of the benches, his curly red head brushing the canvas ceiling. "All right, everybody," he said. "We're going to be showing a movie in a little while, after the kiddies are sent to bed. But first, some music. I hope you've all practiced the chorus, as instructed. Father, if you would?"

Mulcahy nodded from his place at the piano and began to play. Charles watched as Malone broke into a grin, recognizing the tune instantly. Danny hopped down from the bench and came to stand beside her. "Well, Nellie?" he said expectantly. "Care to start us off?"

Malone nodded, still grinning. Clearing her throat, she began to sing, her clear voice complimenting the sound of the piano.

"_Oh, the summer time has come,  
__And the trees are sweetly blooming,  
__And the wild mountain thyme  
__Grows around the blooming heather  
__Will ye go, lassie, go?..._"

The rest of the camp added their voices to the chorus, Margaret's voice, in particular, rising above the others. As they sang, Malone pulled Soo-Min into her lap, balancing the little girl on her uninjured leg. Every time the song reached the end of the chorus, Charles could feel his heart threaten to break.

He wasn't at all sure he would be able to let this lassie go.

* * *

Nellie didn't have the faintest notion how Danny had known. She had made certain that he would never find out. In fact, she had always told him that her favorite movie was _Great Expectations_.

So how on earth did he know that it was _really_ Alfred Hitchcock's _Rebecca_?

She shook her head to herself as she sat beside Charles in the front row of the darkened mess tent. On the screen in front of them, Laurence Olivier was chewing up the scenery as usual, while Joan Fontaine fawned all over him like the lovesick child that she was. This had been, without a doubt, the most unforgettable night of Nellie's life. She was completely overwhelmed. But it wasn't the cookies, or the singing, or the film, or even the Distinguished Service medal, that had moved her to her core. It was the _people_. This diverse bunch of wonderful people sitting around her, laughing, whispering, sharing popcorn. She loved them all. And she had no idea how she was going to leave them.

She was drawn back to the film as Olivier, as Maxim de Winter, suddenly raised his voice from the bathroom of his hotel suite: _"I'm asking you to marry me, you little fool!"_

Everyone in the audience burst out laughing. Nellie could hear B.J.'s guffaw in the row behind her. "How _not_ to propose," he said.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hawkeye reach out and tap Charles on the shoulder. "Be sure and tuck that tidbit away for future use, Chahhls," he drawled.

"Hawkeye!" she exclaimed indignantly.

Charles merely batted the chief surgeon's hand away, as if he were swatting at a particularly bothersome fly. Then, with a smile, he took Nellie's hand in his.

With a squeeze of his fingers, she turned her attention back to the screen. She loved this movie, as well as the book on which it was based. And Laurence Olivier was one of her favorite actors; she just adored the Shakespearean way he rolled his r's.

After a while, though, it became swiftly apparent that she couldn't concentrate, and that it had something to with the man sitting beside her. While still watching the film, Charles had begun to make a thorough study of her hand, tracing his fingers over hers, between her knuckles, along the lines in her palm. It was as if he were committing every detail of it to memory. By the time the second Mrs. de Winter had arrived with her new husband at Manderley, all Nellie could focus on was the sensation of those amazing fingers brushing over her skin.

She couldn't help wondering what they would feel like on the rest of her body. Would they explore her with the same excruciating slowness, the same meticulous attention to detail?

She fought down a growl of frustration, thankful that the darkness hid the blush that threatened to consume her face. She had never felt quite like this before, and it was making her slightly light-headed, not fully in control. Normally, she hated that feeling of being at the mercy of her emotions, but oddly enough, this felt different. This felt... good.

She was certain that Charles had no idea what he was doing to her. How could he? His eyes were glued to the screen in front of him, oblivious to the strange, glorious heat emanating from her belly and suffusing her limbs — well, three of them, anyway. No doubt his actions were meant to be perfectly innocent.

Oh, _no,_ they weren't. She heard that slow intake of breath just now, and the shaky exhalation that followed it. He knew exactly what he was doing, because it was having the same effect on him. The devious, _delicious_ man.

Slowly, Nellie leaned against him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. In response, he released her hand and slid his arm around her. She could hear Hawkeye and B.J. snickering to themselves behind her, but she paid them no heed. Instead, she placed her hand deliberately on Charles's thigh. He stiffened for a moment, then began idly running his hand through her hair.

Feeling more than a little evil, Nellie sat forward slightly in her chair, pretending to be absorbed in the movie, all the while massaging his thigh with her fingers. Almost in retaliation, she felt his own fingertips brush the nape of her neck, and she realized that this had somehow turned into a game. Never one to concede defeat easily, she allowed her hand to wander, until she found a particularly sensitive spot on the inside of his knee.

She couldn't quite suppress a smirk as she heard him inhale sharply. "Oh, God," he whispered under his breath. Unable to endure any more, he took her hand and trapped it in his, and she grinned in triumph. Round one to Malone.

By the end of the film, she could barely think straight, and the loud applause that followed the final scene nearly made her leap out of her skin. As the lights went up in the mess tent, and everyone began to stand up and stretch their muscles, Nellie arrived at a decision.

Taking a deep breath, she leaned in close to Charles, her hand on his shoulder. "I think it's time for bed," she whispered into his ear.

He nodded. "Yes, of course," he replied. "It's been a very long day. You should get some sleep."

She swallowed, willing herself to say the words. "That's not exactly what I had in mind."

Charles went very still. And then, slowly, he drew away slightly to look into her eyes.

"Are you certain?" he whispered.

In answer, she squeezed his shoulder. "Yes."

"But your leg—" he began.

"_Damn_ my leg."

He continued gazing searchingly into her eyes, looking for any trace of doubt. Then he nodded silently.

As he stood up and moved behind her wheelchair, the others bade them goodnight, and she thanked everyone profusely for the wonderful evening. Danny came forward, gave her a peck on the cheek, and pretended to steal the service medal pinned to her collar. She endured a sound hair-ruffling at the hands of both Hawkeye and B.J., and Kellye hugged her so hard that she thought her eyes might pop out. Klinger, on the other hand, just gave her a feeble wave from his seat; judging from the look of him, he seemed to have packed away too many cookies.

Outside, the light drizzle had increased to a downpour. Nellie smiled as Charles took off his light-weight field jacket and gave it to her, encouraging her to hold it over her head. _One last Korean rainstorm, just for me,_ she thought wryly as he wheeled her across the compound.

The closer they drew to the V.I.P. tent, the more rapidly her heart seemed to beat in her chest. By the time Charles had pulled the door open and brought her inside, it was difficult to tell if the nervousness she was feeling was brought on by anticipation, or by fear. This was completely new territory for her. How could she be expected to know the difference?

And then, as Charles helped her out of her chair and onto the bed, he brushed her hair out of her face and tenderly kissed her forehead, and she had her answer. This was the man she wanted. This man, and no one else.

After removing the medal from her collar and putting it safely aside in its velvet box, he came and sat beside her on the bed, taking her hand lightly in his. As his eyes met hers, it occurred to her that he appeared almost as nervous as she felt. For some reason, the knowledge was strangely reassuring, and put her a little more at ease.

With a smile, she leaned against him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her head to his chest. She felt him chuckle as he drew his arms around her, pulling her close. His cotton tee shirt was warm and slightly damp from the rain, and she could smell his sandalwood soap. She closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat, strong and fast under her ear.

"Did you enjoy the movie?" she asked, after some time had passed.

"I did, yes," he replied, his cheek resting on her hair. "I found the psychological aspect of it very compelling." She nodded against him. "I must confess, though, I'm a little surprised that it's your favorite film."

"Oh?" She blinked. "Why is that?"

Charles shrugged. "It just seems an odd choice, that's all," he said, running his hands absently up and down her sides and sending a pleasant shiver through her. "I'd have guessed it would be something more along the lines of, say, _Hamlet_, or _Pygmalion_."

"Because I'm a hopeless bookworm?"

"Precisely." She poked him in his ribs, and he tickled her sides, making her snort with laughter. "Actually," he went on, "it has more to do with the heroine of the film, the second Mrs. de Winter. She's not what you would call a strong female character, is she? Such a meek and submissive creature, too easily dominated by those around her." He shook his head. "I wonder you can identify with her. She's not at all like you."

Nellie drew back, pretending to be indignant. "Are you saying you don't think I'm meek?" she asked pertly, her eyebrow raised.

He chuckled again, raising his hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "I think you are very modest," he said diplomatically, causing her to roll her eyes. "But meek... no." He held his hand to the side of her face, his thumb gently grazing her cheek. "Your calm demeanor hides a quiet strength, an inner fire which cannot be extinguished."

She felt a swell of emotion at his words. Blinking back tears, she reached up and covered his hand with hers. "Charles Emerson Winchester," she said in an awed tone, shaking her head. "You may be third in a series, but you are one of a kind."

Smiling, he leaned in and brushed his lips lightly over hers. She sighed softly, her eyes fluttering shut. Slowly, his hand moved through her hair, cupping the back of her head as he deepened the kiss. She pressed her body against his, her hands sliding up his arms and gripping his shoulders. As his other hand strayed lower, coming to a rest at the small of her back, the only thought running through her head was, _Finally._

The sudden flash of lightning made her jump, but the thunder that immediately followed nearly startled her out of her wits. "Oh, dear God, not now," she groaned.

"Shhh," soothed Charles, stroking her back in a comforting manner. "It's all right, Malone. There's nothing to fear. I've got you." His lips met hers, lingering for only an instant. "I've got you," he whispered, his warm breath stirring her hair.

Nellie's fingers tightened on his shoulders, pulling him closer as he kissed her again, and again. She felt her heart begin to race, her breathing quicken, and her mind grow hazy, until that "inner fire" threatened to consume her. She was acutely aware of Charles's large palms, flat against her back, holding her to his chest. As she lost herself in the kiss, in the reassuring strength of his arms, she forgot about the storm raging outside. Nothing else existed but this.

Another roll of thunder struck, but neither of them noticed it this time. Breaking the kiss, he gently lowered her onto her back, his eyes never leaving hers. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you," she whispered back, her hand reaching up to caress his face. "So very much."

And then his mouth was on hers again, hungry, insistent. As her hands slid around his back, fisting in his shirt, she gave a low moan, hardly recognizing her own voice. Soon he was kissing her everywhere — her face, her chin, her throat, paying special attention to the pulse point at her neck. When he reached her collarbone, he paused, his hand hovering near the first button of her blouse, as if asking permission.

"Don't stop on my account," she murmured, her voice slightly husky.

Charles smiled against her skin. As he slowly worked his way through the countless little pearl buttons, Nellie took the opportunity to kiss the line of his jaw, loving the way his eyelids slid shut in pleasure. Emboldened, she moved her lips along his neck, to the sensitive spot behind his ear. By the time she reached his earlobe, he was breathing heavily, his hands trembling.

"I'm going to be honest with you," she said softly into his ear. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

"If that is true, then you have an astonishing gift for improvisation," he managed to gasp.

At last his fingers succeeded in unfastening the last button, and he lifted her slightly off the bed, gently sliding the blouse off of her shoulders and leaving her in her simple, peach-colored brassiere. For the first time that she could recall, he seemed to be completely speechless. And then, reverently, he began to press kisses to her throat, across her chest, down her stomach, his lips worshiping her skin.

"Oh, my Charles," she said breathlessly, her mind reeling at the exquisite sensations.

"Yes," he whispered fervently between kisses. "Yes, I'm yours. I am entirely yours."

She tugged his shirt free from the waistband of his trousers and slid her hands underneath, gliding over his bare back. As his own hand moved over her hip and down her leg, finding the hem of her skirt and slowly pushing it higher, her body arched involuntarily against him.

Suddenly she cried out as a sharp pain lanced through her left leg. Quickly, Charles moved off of her, his blue eyes filled with worry. "Malone, what is it?" he asked urgently, cupping her face in his hands. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

Nellie shook her head, wincing. "No, it's just my leg," she answered.

He nodded, relaxing slightly. And then they both went abruptly still as they realized the full meaning of her words.

"I can feel my leg again," she said, staring at him.

He let out a slow, unsteady breath. "Damn," he muttered. He saw the confused expression that crossed her face, and cleared his throat. "I mean... thank God."

* * *

A/N: Don't kill me. Leave all the angry reviews you like, but spare my life. That's all I ask.

- Octopus


	28. Closer than Kinfolk

A/N: Oh. Oh, my. Someone pointed out to me that this story now has the most reviews of any story in the _M*A*S*H_ section. I don't know what to say. Honestly, I never expected it to become this popular. I guess what makes it so surprising is that it's about _Charles_. All the most popular stories are about Hawkeye and Margaret. I didn't even know anyone _liked_ Charles when I started writing this! (Besides myself, of course.) And now I find there are all these people out there who appreciate him as much as I do. It's fantastic. I can't thank you guys enough. I'm so glad to have shared this experience with you.

But it's not over yet! Why am I acting like it is? I'll shut up now. Here's the next chapter. But before I forget, thank you as always to my beta reader, **blown-transistor**. Your assistance is invaluable!

Disclaimer: _M*A*S*H_, mine? Surely you jest. ;)

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Closer than Kinfolk

It was not often that Hawkeye had good dreams. In fact, it was far more common for him to relive events which had occurred during his time in Korea — events that he would just as soon forget. Sometimes the dreams played out in his head exactly as they had occurred. For instance, the recurring dream in which he witnessed the death of his childhood friend Tommy Gillis was so disturbingly realistic in its accuracy that when he woke, gasping and soaked in cold sweat, his grief was as fresh as if it had happened that very day. There were other nights, however, when his unconscious mind didn't get all the details quite right. Like when he dreamed about the time he'd operated on Radar, after the kid had been injured as a direct result of heeding his bone-headed advice. In his dreams, instead of the incident-free operation he remembered, something invariably went wrong: a severe hemorrhage, a bad reaction to the anaesthesia, a blood clot in the brain. Those dreams always ended badly.

If he was lucky, he might be so exhausted that he would sleep through the night without dreaming at all; or if he did, he didn't remember his dreams. Those were good nights. But best of all were the nights he dreamed about home. About Crabapple Cove. About camping, and picnics, and fishing with his dad from the end of the little pier that jutted out into the cove. He remembered those dreams for weeks.

But dreaming about earthquakes? That had to be a first.

He blamed B.J. for it, of course. He had finally succeeded in convincing Hawkeye to read _The Maltese Falcon_, insisting it was the best detective novel ever written. Besides which, the story just _happened_ to be set in San Francisco, the greatest city on earth, according to his best friend. Hawkeye had always associated that particular city with, among other things, its frequent seismic tremors. So when his lovely dream of digging for clams with the banker's beautiful daughter was suddenly interrupted by a violent shaking, his first, surprisingly lucid thought was, _I'm going to kill B.J._

As it happened, however, B.J. was not to blame for the upheaval, after all. As Hawkeye's eyes flew open, and he clutched at his bedclothes in mindless panic, he found himself being jostled awake by his other tent mate. And none too gently.

"For God's sake, Charles, I'm a man, not a maraca," he growled irritably, pushing the other surgeon's hands away. "Stop shaking me already. I'm awake."

Charles fixed him with his usual disapproving glare. "And not a moment too soon," he replied archly. "I was on the verge of preparing a syringe full of adrenaline."

"No thanks, I've had all my shots." Hawkeye yawned, throwing his arm up to shield his eyes from the harsh light of his lamp. "What's going on? Is it casualties?"

The Bostonian shook his head. "Thankfully, no. However, your assistance is required." He took hold of Hawkeye's arm and attempted to pull him out of his cot. "Come on, Pierce. On your feet."

Hawkeye yanked his arm out of the man's grasp. "No way," he said stubbornly, burrowing his face into his pillow. "Not without some kind of an explanation."

He heard Charles let loose a gale-force sigh. "Pierce, I am no mood to argue with you," he said impatiently.

"That makes two of us." Charles growled under his breath, and Hawkeye peered up at him through slitted lids. "Come on, quit being so damned cryptic," he said. "Just tell me what's wrong, before I lose what little interest I have invested in this ridiculous conversation."

Charles heaved another sigh, passing a tired hand across his face. "It's Malone," he said at last. "She's regained partial sensation in her leg."

"Oh, yeah?" Hawkeye sat up, squinting at the clock on his bedside table: just a few minutes past two in the morning. That didn't surprise him; Malone's farewell party had wrapped up rather late. What was surprising was that he had been able to fall asleep as quickly as he had. On his own cot, B.J. was still asleep, snoring softly.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, Hawkeye got a better look at Charles. Then he broke into a grin. "Well, well, what have we here?" he crowed, wiggling his eyebrows. "Hair uncombed, shirt misbuttoned, bed not slept in. Why, Charles, you dog."

The major's cheeks flushed, and his death-glare returned in greater intensity. "Keep your salacious remarks to yourself, Pierce," he warned, though his fingers wasted no time in buttoning his shirt properly.

"You never let me have any fun." Abruptly, Hawkeye's grin faded as Charles's words finally sank in. "Wait a minute. Did you say 'partial'?"

Charles nodded wordlessly, his face grave.

It was Hawkeye's turn to sigh. "Hand me my robe."

"I hesitated to disturb you with this, Pierce," Charles was saying as they walked out of the Swamp and into the rainy compound. "However, in all honesty, I don't have much confidence in myself at the moment. Or at least, in my ability to remain objective." Hawkeye nodded, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "You assisted in her surgery. Can you recall the extent of her nerve damage?"

Hawkeye gave a shrug. "The worst of it was to the intermediate femoral nerves. I did my best to repair them, but there wasn't a whole lot to work with. I was too busy trying to stop the bleeding."

"I'm afraid that at least some of the damage was my doing," said Charles in a low voice. "It's very possible that I severed one or more of the nerves inadvertently when I performed that emergency fasciotomy."

"You did what you had to do. That's understandable."

"No. It's unforgivable."

Hawkeye halted Charles with a hand on his shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up," he told him. "You had no choice. You were desperate, distraught."

"Precisely. If I had been in a calmer frame of mind, I would have paid better attention, taken greater care." He swallowed. "You were right, Pierce. I shouldn't have been allowed anywhere near her. I see that now."

"Hey, cut that out," said Hawkeye, not unkindly. "That fasciotomy is probably what saved her life. And you did a flawless job in surgery. If anyone's to blame for her condition, it's me." He shook his head in frustration. "There was just too much blood. I could barely see what I was doing. It was all I could do to keep her from bleeding to death." He cringed, realizing what he'd just said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, I know," Charles murmured, his voice strained.

Outside the door to Pre-Op, Hawkeye paused again, feeling the rain trickle down the back of his neck and under the collar of his robe. "I'll tell you, Charles," he said quietly. "That was a night I'll never forget. It was Radar all over again." He knew he should just stop talking, but he couldn't seem to shut up. "I couldn't even think about who it was lying on that table. I was afraid that if I did, I would freeze up. And then you'd never forgive me."

"Pierce," said Charles, his tone verging on pleading.

"You're right, you're right. I'm sorry." He waved a finger at the other man. "Don't forget, it's two in the morning. I shouldn't be held responsible for anything I say."

Inside Pre-Op, Malone was sitting upright on a gurney, her legs stretched out in front of her. Her hair was even more disheveled than Charles's, and her skirt and blouse were in a similar state of disarray. But Hawkeye refrained from commenting on either when he saw her face. It was drawn and pinched, and her skin was abnormally pale.

"Hey, Freckles," he said as he entered.

She attempted a weak smile, and failed. "Sorry to wake you with all this, Hawkeye."

"It's okay," he answered with a shrug. "An hour of sleep is really all I need." Her tired smile was quickly replaced with an expression of guilt. He patted her on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. So what's all this I hear about your leg? Charles tells me you've got some of the feeling back."

Malone nodded tightly. "Some. Particularly in my thigh." She shifted slightly, and winced. "In point of fact, it hurts like hell. And that's putting it delicately."

Hawkeye turned to Charles. "Have you given her anything for the pain?"

The major nodded. "Just codeine. I thought anything stronger might dull her sensitivity."

"Good call." He returned his attention to Malone. "All right, let's get that cast off and have a look-see."

Under normal circumstances, the preferred tool for cast removal was an electrically powered oscillating saw. Unfortunately, the 4077th was not equipped with one. MASH units, after all, were typically the sort of places where casts were applied, not removed. Soaking the cast in a solution of water and vinegar would take far too long. That left only one alternative: the plaster shears.

With painstaking care, Hawkeye snipped his way slowly through the layers of hardened plaster and cotton. It was tedious work, and the mood in the room was tense. Malone sat silently, her brow contracted in pain, while Charles stood by her side, gripping her hand tightly in his. Now Hawkeye knew why Charles had asked him to do this. The man was too emotionally involved for his own good. Or, for that matter, hers.

It was with a sigh of relief that Hawkeye removed the cast and peeled away the layer of sterile gauze that protected the sutured wound. He couldn't quite conceal his dismay at the sight. Malone's leg was swollen and bruised, and the countless row of stitches ran up her thigh like a ladder, making the long incision scar even more noticeable. It was a real shame, he thought; her other leg was pretty damned perfect.

He looked up to find that her face had gone white. "You okay?"

With an effort, she tore her gaze away from her leg. "Yes. Sorry, it's just... This is my first time actually seeing my injury. I guess I wasn't quite prepared for it." She shuddered slightly. "It's so... grisly."

"The discoloration is only temporary, Malone," Charles said in a reassuring tone. "And as for the scar, it will fade over time."

"Marginally," she murmured under her breath.

He made a pained face. "Malone—"

She covered his hand with her own. "It's all right, Charles. It's a small price to pay."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the part in her hair, and Hawkeye had to turn away to hide his smile. It was somewhat jarring to see Charles in love with someone _other_ than himself, but he had to admit, he was enjoying this side of the arrogant windbag. It was a pity that soon she would be leaving, and he would probably go back to being his old insufferable self. Then again, Hawkeye reminded himself, even at his worst, Charles still wasn't as bad as Frank.

Grabbing a stool, he pulled it up to the gurney and perched himself on it. "I'm going to give you a sensory exam now, Nellie," he told her. "I'm sure you know how this works. You're going to close your eyes, and I'm going to touch different parts of your leg. Then you're going to point to the area where you felt sensation."

She nodded, and with Charles's help, she managed to slide forward on the gurney, until her foot was resting in Hawkeye's lap. Closing her eyes, she waited as he contemplated where to begin. He decided to start at the top and work his way down.

Very gently, he probed the bruised skin at the top of her thigh. She hissed in pain, and Charles immediately lapsed into overprotective mode, tightening his fists until his knuckles turned white. "Take it easy, Papa Bear," Hawkeye murmured. "I'm barely touching her."

Ignoring the Bostonian's indignant glare at his new nickname, he continued his examination. As he did so, she correctly indicated where he was touching her, until he reached her knee. From there, it was decidedly hit-and-miss. She seemed to have no feeling in the inside of her lower leg, the top of her foot, or her first three toes.

With a sigh, Hawkeye sat back on his stool. "My diagnosis is partial paralysis of the lower extremity, resulting from damage to the intermediate femoral and saphenous nerves." It was not the worst news he had ever given, but not exactly the best, either. "I'm sorry, Nellie."

Charles looked as if he were ready to tear out his hair in his grief — what little hair he had left, anyway. Malone, on the other hand, seemed strangely resigned. "It could be worse," she replied with a weary shrug. "And I'll be able to walk on it eventually, right?"

"You'll probably need a cane," he told her, "but yeah, you'll be able to walk."

For the first time, she broke into a genuine smile. "A cane," she repeated in a wry tone. "Good Lord. I've become an old crone at twenty-eight. How did that happen?"

Hawkeye patted her on the knee. "Don't worry. We'll get you a really sexy cane." She snorted. "Fire engine red, to match your hair."

Charles shook his head in exasperation. "Must you make inane jokes at a time like this?"

The chief surgeon extended his hand to him. "Hi. I'm Hawkeye. Have we met?"

Together, he and Charles encased her leg in a fresh cast. While they waited for the plaster to dry, Hawkeye stayed and chatted with them about nothing in particular. He supposed he could have gone back to bed and left them alone, but neither of them seemed to mind his presence. If anything, they both seemed grateful for his conversation and his company.

"So does this mean I don't have to see the doctors in Tokyo?" Malone asked suddenly. They both looked over at her. "After all, they can't tell me any more than you just did, Hawkeye," she went on. "I know I can't stay here, but I'd really rather not spend weeks in a hospital, surrounded by total strangers. I'd just as soon go home."

Hawkeye shrugged. "I don't see why you couldn't. What do you think, Chuck?"

Charles was silent for a moment. "If you want a second opinion," he said slowly, "then I would have to agree. There's no reason why you should be forced to convalesce in Tokyo, when you could just as easily do so in the comfort of your own home. Or, in this case," he added, "your uncle's home."

The nurse rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me. I'm not looking forward to placing my life in the hands of my relatives. Essentially, I'll be on my own. My uncle has rheumatoid arthritis, and his wife is what I like to call 'domestically challenged'." She sighed. "I wonder if they still have all those cats."

Hawkeye winced in sympathy. "That's rough, kid."

Her cast was nearly dry, although there were still a few damp spots here and there, and it wouldn't be fully dry for seventy-two hours. A sudden thought occurred to Hawkeye, and he stood up and began hunting around for a pen. He found one in the adjoining lab and came back. Bending over Malone's cast, he scrawled a message on the white plaster: "_Roses are red, and pretty like you. Get well soon, and don't feel so blue. — Your pal, Hawkeye._" She smiled and gave his arm a squeeze.

"And with that," he said, tossing the pen over his shoulder, "I bid you _Buona notte, mi amici._"

"Thank you, Hawkeye," said Malone.

Beside her, Charles gave him a terse nod and said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes.

"You turning in, too?" he asked him.

Charles shook his head. "No, I..." He cleared his throat. "I think I'll stay with Malone tonight."

A sly, knowing smile spread over Hawkeye's face. "Oh, I get it," he said teasingly. "One last stroll through the garden of earthly—"

"Hawkeye," Malone said simply.

He chuckled to himself. "Good night, little turtle doves," he called, giving them a wave as he made his exit.

Back in the Swamp, he gave a loud yawn before remembering that B.J. was still asleep. Caution didn't seem to make much difference, though; a herd of wildebeest could have stampeded through the tent at that moment, and the man still probably would not have stirred.

With a shrug, Hawkeye removed his damp robe and threw it across Charles's empty bunk. _He won't be using it, anyway,_ he thought with a smile. But his amusement soon faded. Though the proud Bostonian and his prudish sweetheart were certainly fun to tease, he knew, from their disheveled states and from the way they had been all over each other during the movie, that they had more than likely been planning to spend the night together. But of course, that was certainly out of the question now that Malone was experiencing sensation — and _pain_ — in her leg again. At this point, no doubt, they just wanted to spend as much time together as possible, while they still could.

He crawled into his bunk and closed his eyes, but sleep would not come as easily this time around. He couldn't stop thinking about what Malone had said earlier: that she would be on her own when she returned to the States, that her relatives weren't really in a position to care for her during her recovery period. Surely there was something that could be done about that.

As he lay there, listening to the rain pattering on the roof of the Swamp, an idea began to form in his mind. A brilliant idea, as a matter of fact. It was a long shot, but it just might work. If it did, Charles and Malone would have no choice but to name their firstborn after him.

Benjamin Franklin Winchester the First. Now that had a nice ring to it.

* * *

When all was said and done, being the 4077th's company clerk wasn't a bad gig. True, it had its trying moments, and it required a certain amount of self-discipline and responsibility; though it wasn't nearly as stressful as being a doctor or a nurse, the clerk at a MASH unit was, in a sense, responsible for human lives. It was his job to make sure there were always adequate supplies of medicines, bandages, and any other items necessary for running a hospital. But keeping the 4077th sufficiently stocked wasn't all that hard; after all, the nearest medical dispensary was only thirty miles away.

Of course, it helped that the current company clerk was a pretty easy-going guy. And in Maxwell Klinger's line of work, it was an essential quality to possess. It took a lot to ruffle his feathers, and even though he complained every now and then, he knew it could be a lot worse. On getting drafted, he could have just as easily found himself up at the front lines.

Or, even worse, he could have Straminsky's job.

But, like any other job, some days were worse than others. Some days were so grueling, so nightmarishly awful, that Klinger was tempted to hijack the nearest jeep, drive off into the horizon, and never look back. This was one of those days.

In addition to the morning report, the weekly report, and the mail delivery, his entire day so far had been consumed by attempting to put Hawkeye's latest noble, if hare-brained, idea into execution. It would take a great deal of finagling, and the chances of actually pulling it off were slim to nil, but the captain had insisted that Klinger should spare no efforts. If it worked, he mused grouchily, the chief surgeon would owe him free check-ups for life.

On top of all that, Hawkeye and Winchester, with the help of the colonel, had managed to convince the doctors in Tokyo that, since the full extent of Nellie's paralysis had been ascertained, an extended stay wouldn't be necessary. Klinger had been able to find her a seat on a hopper plane from Seoul to Tokyo, with a connecting flight to Honolulu, and then on to San Francisco. The hopper departed from Seoul at precisely 0900 hours the next morning. And so, this was officially Nellie Malone's last day at the 4077th.

Klinger was understandably upset. He had seen little of Nellie over the past few days, thanks to Major Winchester. He knew that his sadness at seeing her go would be nothing compared to the major's, but he couldn't help being annoyed. Winchester wasn't the only one who cared about Nellie, and Klinger felt it was inconsiderate of him to keep her all to himself, even if they _were_ madly in love.

Still, he couldn't say he wouldn't have done the same, if he had been in Winchester's shoes.

Fortunately, he had little time to dwell on Nellie's imminent departure, because he was too busy fearing for his life.

"How could you possibly forget, you desert doofus?" Major Houlihan shrieked at him, her voice even more strident than usual — not to mention more congested. "I asked you at _least_ four times to order more antihistimines!"

"I'm sorry, Major," Klinger told her, as contritely as he knew how. "I've had so much to do lately, I guess it just slipped my mind!"

"I'd find that a lot easier to believe, if you actually _had_ a mind," she said sarcastically, her arms folded over her chest.

The clerk suppressed a sigh. "I know I screwed up, ma'am. You don't have to rub it in."

"Well, what do you expect?" she demanded angrily. "Half the camp is suffering from allergies, including myself and nearly the entire nursing staff, and you think I should let you off easy, because you forgot to do your job? Give me a break!"

The urge to bang his head against his desk was growing stronger by the minute. "I'm not trying to make any excuses, Major," he said in a measured tone. "But you've got to understand. I've had bigger things to worry about."

Houlihan rolled her eyes. "Like what? Trading our supplies for a few bottles of booze? Making sure the colonel's horse has enough oats?"

Klinger took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No," he answered, gritting his teeth. "Like making sure Lieutenant Malone gets home in one piece."

The head nurse's ire abruptly drained away. "Oh," she said, her arms dropping to her sides. "You found a flight for her, then?"

He nodded tiredly. "Tomorrow morning," he replied. Houlihan came over and leaned against his desk, her demeanor much more subdued. "It's all I can think about," he continued, not looking at her. "I've never trusted airplanes. And after what happened to Colonel Blake..." He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence. "Let's just say I won't rest easy until I know Nellie's landed safely in San Francisco."

"I know what you mean," she said quietly. "I don't like it, either. But," she added with a slight shrug, "they say that, for the most part, flying is perfectly safe. The way I see it, even in the air, she'll probably be a lot safer than any of us."

"Boy, that's a comforting thought," Klinger muttered.

Houlihan laid a hand on his shoulder. "You're really going to miss her, huh?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." Suddenly it had become very difficult to speak. "As much as I hate the Army, I can't deny that if it hadn't been for this stupid war, I never would have met her. Never would have..." He cleared his throat. "Well, never mind that."

He felt the major's gaze on him. When she spoke, her voice had lost its stern, officious edge. "You still love her, don't you?" she asked softly.

At last Klinger looked up at her. Her eyes were kind, sympathetic. "Yeah, I do," he said at length. "Just not in the same way that Major Winchester does. Not anymore." He smiled wryly. "I had big plans for us, though. I was going to bring her home to meet my folks. We'd get married, have a few kids, maybe get a puppy. I was going to teach her Arabic, so my ma could show her how to make baklava. It wouldn't be as good as Ma's, of course, but it's the thought that counts, you know?"

Houlihan smiled. Klinger didn't know why he was telling her all this. Probably because he could never tell Nellie. "I may not feel that way anymore," he said slowly, "but she'll always be special to me. She's more than just a friend. More than _family_, even."

The blonde nurse was silent. "You grew up on Army bases, right, Major?" he asked her. "You moved around a lot when you were a kid?" She nodded, still saying nothing. "Me, I was born and raised in Toledo," he went on. "Most of my friends there are people I've known since I was little. And I know that when I get home, we'll all just pick up where we left off." He gave a quiet chuckle. "Hell, someday I might even forgive my ex-wife. I never could stay mad at her, anyway."

Houlihan snorted in amusement. "But lately I've been thinking," he said in a low voice. "About how hard it'll be to say goodbye. Not just to Nellie, but to everybody here at the 4077th. This war's got to end eventually. And everyone will go back to their homes. It makes me sick to think that some of us — _most_ of us — will probably never see each other again." He swallowed. "How do you do it, Major? How do you get used to saying goodbye?"

As he gazed up at the nurse, her expression grew solemn. Slowly, she shook her head. "You never do," she said quietly. "At least, I never did."

Klinger sighed. "Thanks, ma'am," he murmured. "You always know just what to say." She reached out and patted his hand.

The door of his office swung open, and Major Winchester stepped in out of the rain, pushing Nellie in her wheelchair. Houlihan quickly withdrew her hand and stood up straight. "Don't forget about the antihistimines," she told him firmly.

"I'll fill out the request form right now," he promised.

"Very good, Corporal. As you were."

She nodded briefly to Nellie and Winchester before hurrying out the door, and Klinger shook his head in wonderment. She was almost like two separate people, he decided: a tough, no-nonsense, somewhat scary Army officer and a warm, compassionate, vulnerable woman. He wondered how on earth they both coexisted in the same body.

As he stood up to retrieve the appropriate papers from his file cabinet, he managed to muster a smile for his visitors. "Afternoon, Nellie, Major," he said. "If you're looking for the colonel, he's down at the stable."

Nellie returned his smile. "Actually, I'm here to see you, Max," she replied. "Charles has Post-Op duty, and I wondered if I might hang around here until his shift is over. Is that all right with you?"

In his surprise, Klinger nearly dropped the forms he was holding. She wanted to spend time with him? He would have thought she would prefer to stay with Winchester in Post-Op. "Yeah, of course," he blurted. "I mean, if that's really what you want. But I should warn you, there's not a whole lot of excitement going on here."

Nellie laughed. "Good. I've had enough excitement to last me a lifetime."

Winchester put his hand on her shoulder, clearly reluctant to leave her. "Are you certain you'll be all right?" he asked her.

She squeezed his hand. "Yes, Charles, I'm certain," she said warmly. "Max is more than capable of looking after me for a few hours. And if I do need a doctor, I'll know just where to find one." She made a shooing gesture. "Now go already, before you're put on report for tardiness."

He gave a weary sigh and raised her hand to his lips. "Once more unto the breach," he said, moving toward the door connecting Klinger's office to the post-operative ward. He paused, then nodded at the clerk. "Corporal," he said brusquely, before striding out the door.

Klinger caught Nellie's attention and rolled his eyes. She merely laughed good-naturedly. "So what are you up to, Max?" she asked, wheeling herself over to his desk. "Anything I can do to help?"

She was looking a lot better, he thought. She had lost that unhealthy pallor that had been worrying him. Her wrist was no longer wrapped in an elastic bandage, and the bruising had nearly faded. She was definitely well enough to travel. Of all the rotten luck.

She moved to straighten the flurry of papers on his desk, but he stopped her. "Hey, come on, Nell," he told her. "Cut that out. There's no way I'm going to put you to work."

"No, I insist," she said adamantly. "I've been wallowing in indolence for far too long."

He frowned at her. "Say what?"

"If you don't give me something to do, I'm going to flip my lid," she clarified.

Klinger laughed. "All right, all right." He gave her a sheaf of documents. "Here. These are the duty rosters for all the enlisted personnel over the past month. Colonel Potter wants a complete overhaul. He says the men are getting into a rut, and when that happens, they get lazy." He gave her a keen look. "Think you can handle it?"

"Oh, I think I'll be able to keep them on their toes," she said smugly, earning another laugh from him.

As Nellie rearranged the duty roster, Klinger got to work on filling out the supply requisition forms. It was just like old times, he mused, back when Nellie was still new at the 4077th, and used to help him out with his paperwork during her off hours. Abruptly, he realized that this was the last time she would ever do so. The thought was enough to put a lump in his throat. _Keep it together, Max,_ he told himself sternly.

Something on Nellie's cast suddenly caught his eye. It looked like handwriting. He leaned in closer, and grinned as he read Hawkeye's cheesy poem. "'Don't feel so blue'?" he repeated. "Wow. What a maroon."

Nellie chuckled. "I think it's sweet."

"Can I sign it?" he asked eagerly.

"Please do!"

Rummaging around in his desk, Klinger found a red pen. Bending over her cast, he wrote in large block letters: "_FRAGILE ARMY PERSONNEL — HANDLE WITH CARE, OR YOU'LL HAVE MAXWELL Q. KLINGER TO ANSWER TO!_" Beside it, he drew an angry face, complete with heavy eyebrows and bared teeth. Upon seeing it, Nellie burst out laughing.

"There," he said, straightening in his chair. "Now you'll have something to remember me by."

She shook her head. "As if I could ever forget you," she told him fondly.

All of Klinger's efforts to maintain his composure swiftly flew right out the window. "I'm gonna miss you so much, kid," he said tightly, his vision beginning to blur.

"Oh, Max." She reached out and took his hand in hers. "Now, don't be silly. It's not like we'll never see each other again."

He gave a somewhat bitter chuckle. "Come on, Nell. Let's not fool ourselves. How often do you get out to Toledo?"

She shrugged lightly. "I'll have a reason to go now, won't I?"

He regarded her dubiously. It was all just a bit too hard to believe. "You mean it?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "You'd really come out for a visit?"

"As long as you promise to take me to Packo's for one of those famous hot dogs you're always raving about," she replied with a grin.

Klinger smiled, a little wanly. "You've got yourself a deal."

He tried to pull his hand out of hers, intending to resume his work, but she only held on tighter. "I mean it, Max," she said sincerely. "You know you're one of my dearest friends. You've always been there for me, right from the very first day I came here. I'm not about to let our friendship just fade away. You're way too important to me."

Klinger had to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. "Yeah?"

She nodded, a crooked smile forming on her face. "I hate to break it to you, Maximus," she said, "but you're never getting rid of me."

Klinger no longer trusted himself to speak, so he simply returned her nod. As she went back to work on the duty roster, she began to whistle some classical tune.

He cleared his throat. "More Mozart?"

She shook her head, her red curls bouncing. "Offenbach."

"Oh. That was going to be my second guess." Nellie laughed, and he poked her in the arm with the cap of his pen. "Sorry I never got into all that classical stuff."

"Sorry I never listened when you talked about baseball scores."

Klinger gaped at her. "You didn't? Then how come you acted like you were hanging on my every word?" She shrugged, smiling guiltily. "Just for that, I'm going to drag you to a Mud Hens game when you come to Toledo. Whether you like it or not."

"Fine," she retorted. "Then when you come visit me in Boston, I'll just drag you to the opera, whether _you_ like it or not."

"Oh, God. I take it all back." She laughed again. He set his pen on the desk and turned to face her. "So," he prompted, his tone more serious. "Boston, huh? You and the major aren't messing around, then."

Nellie's cheeks took on a faint pink tint. "He says he wants me to go back with him. Either when the war ends, or when he's got enough rotation points to go home. Whichever comes first. And he says Danny is welcome to come, too."

She seemed either excited or scared by the prospect; Klinger couldn't tell which. "Do you want to go?" he asked quietly.

As she returned his gaze, she slowly smiled. "I do," she said. "I mean, I love Oregon, and I have a lot of fond memories of growing up there, but... I have no reason to stay. My parents are gone. I was too shy and awkward to make any close friends. And there's no _way_ I'm living in Malibu. Hot weather turns me into a murderous Gorgon."

Klinger laughed. She was so wonderfully weird. "Besides," she added, "I've always wanted to see New England. And Charles will be the perfect tour guide. He'll know all of the historic sites, of course. All the best places to eat."

"The most expensive places, you mean," he corrected her.

"It _is_ obscene how rich he is, isn't it?" He laughed again. "Do you think I should go?" she asked, catching him off guard.

"It doesn't matter what I think," he said.

"Of course it does," she replied, sounding surprised that he would say such a thing. "Your opinion is important to me, Max."

He sighed. "You really want to know what I think?" She nodded. "I think you'd be a grade-A dope not to go," he told her frankly, causing her eyes to widen behind her glasses. "Come on, Nell. You and Major Winchester... You're meant to be. You may have gotten yourself transferred to Korea to be near your brother, but... coming _here_, to the 4077th? That was no accident." He smiled slightly. "You came here to meet him."

Nellie's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Max," she said thickly.

"Aw, geez, Nell," he groaned. "Don't cry. Don't you dare cry." He shook his finger at her. "So help me, I will... give you the scores for the last twenty World Series."

She gave a sniff, quickly composing herself. "I'll behave."

Klinger grinned and chucked her lightly on the chin. But as they both returned to work, he was obliged to recite baseball scores in his head for nearly half an hour, just to keep from falling apart.

* * *

It was with some considerable embarrassment that Nellie realized that since her nervous breakdown in front of Father Mulcahy at the ruined orphanage, she no longer had quite the iron grip on her emotions that she used to possess. In fact, she seemed to be crying over damned near everything lately. She had cried when Private Straminsky had saved her the last of the pudding at dinner the night before. She'd cried when half the camp had lined up to sign her cast. She'd cried when Kellye had wheeled her over to the animal hutches to say goodbye to Radar's menagerie. And just that morning, as she had been having breakfast with Charles in the mess tent, she had burst into tears when it suddenly dawned on her that she would never eat powdered eggs again. She still didn't know if those had been tears of sadness, or relief.

And now, as her tent mates helped pack her belongings, she could feel her traitorous bottom lip begin to wobble again. Once they were finished, there was nothing left to do but pile her things into the waiting jeep and drive away. Away from the 4077th, away from the best people she had ever known, away from the man she loved. And trade it all for... what, exactly? Southern California. Blazing, oppressive heat. Uncle Will, his crazy wife, and their seven cats.

Why was she leaving again?

As she struggled not to lose it for the thousandth time, Lori Nagel paused in her task of folding Nellie's clothes and reached down into her own foot locker. To Nellie's surprise, she pulled out her midnight blue dress and proceeded to stuff it inside her suitcase.

"What are you doing?" Nellie asked in protest. "I can't take your dress!"

"Sure you can," Nagel said easily. "It never looked right on me, anyway. Besides," she added, wrinkling her nose, "I'll never be able to wear it again, knowing that Winchester's drooled all over it."

Nellie did her best to look indignant, but she was unable to keep from laughing. "I'm going to miss that bright, cheery demeanor of yours," she said sarcastically.

The other nurse reached out and ruffled her hair. "Same to you, copper-top."

And just like that, Nellie was on the verge of another breakdown. _For God's sake,_ she thought angrily, wiping at her eyes. _When did I become such a girl?_

They continued to pack her bags, reminiscing about old times and making plans to visit each other in the future. Maddie Clark made Nellie promise, under penalty of death, to keep up her hair and makeup regimen. Nellie was only partially convinced that she was kidding.

She packed the last of her books away into her steamer trunk, watching in amusement as Kellye was obliged to sit on the lid just to get the hasps to close. As she sat in her ill-fitting Class A skirt and jacket, taking one last look around the tent to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything, she heard a light rap on the door. "Come in," she called.

The door opened, and Sister Theresa stepped inside, accompanied by little Soo-Min. "I hope I'm not disturbing you, ladies," the nun said. "I'm taking the children to the orphanage in Incheon, and I wanted to say goodbye to you before we left." She clasped Nellie's hand gratefully. "Thank you for everything, Lieutenant. Rest assured, our Father's heart is warmed by your self-sacrificing spirit."

Nellie felt her cheeks grow warm. "Thank you, Sister," she replied, mustering a smile. "I wish you and the children all the best."

"Soo-Min also has something she wants to give you." She nudged the little girl. "Go on," she urged.

The child came forward and, reaching into the folds of her grubby dress, pulled out her tattered rag doll. With an air of firm resolve, she held it out to Nellie. "Oh, no, honey," she said, shaking her head. "I can't take this from you."

Soo-Min pushed the doll insistently toward Nellie, her eyes wide and beseeching. "Please," she said in her tiny voice, using one of the few English words in her vocabulary. "Please."

Nellie stroked her smooth black hair, blinking back tears. "I can't," she said gently.

"Please, Lieutenant," Theresa said quietly. "You must take it. She already tried giving it to Major Winchester. He told her to give it to you."

Defeated, Nellie took the doll with a weak smile. "_Kam-sa-ham-ni-da_," she murmured, her throat tight.

Then she held out her arms, and Soo-Min came forward, hugging her with surprising strength. As Nellie held onto her tightly, silent tears running down her face, she wondered absently if it was actually possible to die of dehydration from crying too much.

The nurses bade the sister and the little girl farewell, and Nellie watched them leave, clutching the doll to her chest. The moment had arrived. Her things were packed. The jeep was waiting in the compound. Charles was ready to drive her to the airport in Seoul. She couldn't put it off any longer. She had to go.

She had to go.

She nodded to Kellye, who handed her a pair of crutches that were leaning against the wall. With the Hawaiian nurse's help, Nellie was able to haul herself upright. Her right wrist was still a little tender, but she was determined to leave standing tall.

The nurses picked up her bags, and a corpsman was wrangled into carrying her steamer trunk full of books. Outside in the compound, the ever-present rain had finally lessened to a light mist. Despite the fairly early hour, a sizeable crowd had gathered around the jeep. For a brief, selfish moment, Nellie almost wished they hadn't come to see her off. Now it would only be that much harder to say goodbye.

After piling her things into the jeep, the nurses came forward, one by one, and hugged her in turn. Kellye's turn came, and she kissed her on the cheek. "Don't forget, you've got to come visit me in Honolulu," she reminded her, her eyes watery. "We'll have a big luau, and I'll make you my famous macaroni salad."

"I can't wait," Nellie told her. "I'll see you then, Kellye-bean."

Major Houlihan stepped forward. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were markedly red. "Malone," she said evenly.

Nellie managed to give a clumsy sort of half-salute, putting her weight on one crutch while she raised her hand. "It's been a privilege and an honor serving under you, ma'am," she said sincerely.

As the head nurse returned her salute, her strong, beautiful features softened into a smile. "You're a damned good nurse, Malone," she said quietly. "We'll miss you."

In contrast to Houlihan's stiff demeanor, Colonel Potter was his typical, informal self. "It's been a real pleasure having you with us, Malone," he told her kindly. "You take good care of yourself now."

"Thank you, Colonel," Nellie replied. "Say goodbye to Sophie for me."

Potter nodded. "You got it, little lady," he said, his voice just a tad rougher than usual.

He stepped back, and B.J. came forward, his cheesy smile decidedly forced under his mustache. "You have yourself a nice, long rest when you get home, Nellie. You've earned it."

Her own smile felt just as strained as his. "I'd rather have a nice, long rest right here, if it's all the same," she said, fighting back tears.

"I know," he murmured. Plucking her hat from her head and tossing it into the jeep, he ruffled her hair one last time. "One for the road," he explained.

As Hawkeye came and reluctantly took his place, he seemed strangely unwilling to meet Nellie's gaze. "See you around, Red," he said shortly.

Nellie blinked up at the chief surgeon. "That's it?" she blurted. "That's all you have to say? 'See you around, Red'?"

He gave a put-upon sigh, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Listen, kid," he said awkwardly. "I'm not too great with goodbyes."

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. "How about 'Here's looking at you'?" she suggested.

"Now where have I heard that before?" he asked teasingly.

Rolling her eyes, she beckoned him closer. As he leaned in, she gave him a peck on the cheek. "Do me a favor, Hawk," she whispered. "Be nice to Charles."

Hawkeye nodded minutely. "Yeah, I will," he murmured, his voice tight. "Bye, Nellie."

As he quickly stepped back, Mulcahy took the opportunity to come forward, his battered white hat in his hands. The moment Nellie saw the kind-hearted chaplain, her composure abruptly crumbled. "Father," she said brokenly.

"Oh, Nellie," he said simply. To her surprise, he reached out and laid his hand gently on her head. Behind his glasses, his blue eyes were bright with unshed tears. "God bless you and keep you, my child," he whispered.

Tears spilled down Nellie's cheeks as she closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw Klinger shaking his head at her in reproach. "Will you quit crying already?" he asked her, his own voice wavering noticeably.

"I will when you do," she retorted, only half-kidding.

"Come here." He pulled her into his arms, taking care not to get tangled in her crutches and topple her over. She buried her face in his shoulder, barely managing to hold back a sob. "You be sure and call us when you get to San Francisco, so we know you're safe," he said, his words muffled slightly by her hair.

She was fully aware that she would be exhausted by the time she arrived in San Francisco. "I will," she promised. He kissed her cheek, squishing his large nose against her ear in the process. "You're still the best, Max," she told him.

He pulled away with a weak smile. "Yeah, I know, get out of here," he said jokingly.

As she removed her glasses and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket, Klinger moved aside, making room for Danny to come up and squeeze the life out of her. "Uncle Will and Aunt Gloria are going to meet you at the airport in San Francisco," he said. "Sorry, but I couldn't talk them out of it."

Nellie shook her head, replacing her glasses. "It's okay. It'll be nice to see some familiar faces. Even if Gloria's will be hidden under fourteen pounds of makeup." He laughed. "Stay out of trouble, you," she ordered sternly.

The boy gave a nonchalant shrug. "I'll see what I can do," he replied with a crooked smile.

During these proceedings, Charles had stood silently by the jeep, his face pale and his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep — as well as other, more obvious reasons. Now he stepped forward and touched her lightly on the arm. "Are you ready?" he asked in a low voice.

Wordlessly, Nellie shook her head. She was not ready. Not at all. She felt like she was leaving a piece of herself here, in this conglomeration of canvas tents in the middle of the Gwangju mountains, and she would never get it back again.

As she stared at the faces of her friends, some trying valiantly to remain strong and others weeping openly, she thought her heart might break in half. An embarrassingly ragged sob escaped her, despite her efforts to keep it in. "Oh, don't make me go," she said miserably.

It was Hawkeye, unsurprisingly, who called her back to her senses. "Are you nuts, sister?" he blurted with his usual tact. "You're finally getting out of this dump. No more all-night O.R. sessions. No more ice-cold showers with complimentary hypothermia. No more mess tent _mélange_ of World War Two-surplus slop. You should be happy."

Nellie laughed through her tears. "The only way I'd be happy is if I could take you all with me." Slowly, her smile faded as she shook her head. "God, I love you people," she said unsteadily. "I love you so much it hurts."

Klinger dug around in his pockets and pulled out a handkerchief, pressing it into her hand. To her amusement, it was a woman's handkerchief, all delicate embroidery and lace. "We love you too, kid," he said warmly. "Now go, or you'll miss your flight."

She cleared her throat. "I'm going, I'm going."

Taking her crutches from her, Charles carefully lifted her into the jeep. Her straight leg cast wouldn't fit in the passenger seat, so she was forced to sit in the back, wedged in among her belongings. After stowing her crutches in the front, Charles climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. As they drove away, Nellie twisted around in her seat and waved to the others, until their figures, along with the rest of the camp, slowly disappeared from sight.

Turning around again, she faced forward, feeling the wind disarrange her hair and dry the tears on her cheeks. She looked at Charles, sitting very straight in front of her in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. Leaning forward, she wrapped her arms around him from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. Gradually, she felt him relax, ever so slightly.

Before long, they found themselves on the outskirts of Seoul. Just on the other side of the Han River lay their destination, the Kimpo air base. As they drew inexorably closer, Nellie could feel her stomach tying itself into knots. She couldn't remember the last time she had experienced such dread over the prospect of getting on a plane. But then again, she had never before left quite so much behind.

As they arrived at the air base, they were directed to pull over, and her bags were commandeered by a pair of servicemen, who escorted them to a small lobby where they were instructed to wait. Nellie collapsed onto the nearest bench, wincing as a jolt of pain went through her leg. Charles sat down beside her, and she leaned wearily against him. It was not yet eight-thirty in the morning, and she was already tired.

Charles drew his arm around her, pulling her closer. She buried her face in his jacket, breathing in the scent of his aftershave as he stroked her hair.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Nothing seemed sufficient. And they both knew the hardest part was still to come.

"What will you do when you get to San Francisco?" he finally asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

Nellie shook her head against him. "I haven't given it much thought," she replied. "We'll probably stay in a hotel for the night, and head back to Malibu the next morning. It's about a seven hour drive."

"Poor girl," he murmured, rubbing her back. "You'll be so exhausted."

She shrugged, no longer caring about the future. Things would eventually sort themselves out. And, if she didn't worry herself to death over Charles, Danny, and the others, stuck in the middle of a war-zone while she lazed around in sunny California, she might even figure out what to do with the rest of her life. Nursing was certainly no longer an option.

They sat together for a while longer in the little lobby, talking quietly as the airport buzzed with activity around them. And then Nellie became aware of a droning noise outside: the roar of a twin-engine aircraft. Suddenly all the time in the world would not have been enough.

Before she knew it, there were people in uniforms taking her bags and loading them onto the plane. She clung to Charles tightly, unable to believe that this moment had arrived. She wondered if she had enough stamina to make a mad dash for the jeep and drive straight back to camp. Probably not. She could barely bring herself to move.

Charles cleared his throat. "I am aware that what I'm about to say will sound hopelessly clichéd, but I'll say it anyway. I shall count the hours until we are together again."

Nellie's throat closed up, and her eyes filled with tears. "So will I. I'll write to you, as often as I think of you." She tried to smile, knowing it was futile. "You'll have so many letters, you'll have to get a bigger desk just to hold them all."

"I sincerely hope so," he said, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

A voice somewhere was telling Nellie to hurry, and she ignored it. She picked up her small Army-issue purse from the bench beside her and opened the clasp. Charles's eyes widened as she pulled out her well-worn copy of _Twelfth Night_.

"Journeys end in lovers' meeting," she said in a meaningful tone, pushing it insistently into his hands. "So don't be surprised if I ask for this back the next time I see you."

Suddenly he was kissing her urgently, desperately. With a sob, she wrapped her arms around his neck as he wound his fingers through her hair. As he held her tightly against him, she felt tears begin to slide down her cheeks.

"Be safe," he whispered, his forehead touching hers. "Please, be safe."

"You, too," she said brokenly, placing her hand on the side of his face. "My love. My dearest Charles."

He kissed her again, and again. Finally, at the risk of oxygen deprivation, they were forced to stop. She grabbed her crutches, and he helped her to her feet. They stepped out of the lobby into the gray morning light, where the Curtiss C-46 was waiting. "I'll call when I get to San Francisco," she told him as they approached the boarding stairs.

"Promise," said Charles, shouting above the engine noise.

"I promise!"

"I love you, Malone."

"I love you!"

As Nellie turned to board the plane, he caught her by the sleeve of her jacket and kissed her again. "Go," he said thickly.

Then someone was taking hold of her, helping her up the stairs and onto the plane. Inside the cabin, she was ushered to her seat on the aisle, where she was forced to lean over to peer out the window. Charles still stood where she had left him, her book tucked securely under his arm. As he caught sight of her in the window, he gave her his customary half-nod, his eyes shining with tears.

And then the plane rumbled away across the tarmac, and he was gone.

Reluctantly, she sat back in her seat as the C-46 steadily picked up speed, hurtling over the runway. Then she felt her stomach give a lurch as the ground abruptly fell away beneath her. Outside the window, the Kimpo airfield grew smaller and smaller, until it too had vanished.

Through blurred vision, Nellie looked down at her cast, gazing at the innumerable messages and drawings that had been scrawled all over it. Among the various "Bon voyage"s and "Get well soon"s was a short message, written in Charles's impeccable hand.

"_Journeys end in lovers' meeting._"

Slowly, she removed her glasses and placed them in her lap. Lowering her face into her hands, she gave over to quiet sobbing.

* * *

Long after the outline of the C-46 had disappeared into the clouds, Charles stood on the tarmac, staring up at the dull gray sky. At last, he couldn't put it off any longer. Forcing himself to turn away, he walked slowly over to his jeep and got in behind the wheel.

Beside him, a brown Army Nurse Corps cap lay forgotten on the passenger seat. Very carefully, he placed the battered copy of _Twelfth Night_ next to it.

He turned the key, and the engine roared to life. Throwing the jeep into gear, he eased it out of the parking area and headed away from the air base in the direction of Seoul. As he drove, droplets of rain began to splash against the windshield, sparsely at first, and then more heavily. He stopped and put up the canvas top, but he was obliged to pull over twice more and wait for the rain to slacken off, until he was able to see the road again.

The third time, on the road to Uijeongbu, Charles simply sat in the idling jeep, staring ahead of him. His hands shook almost imperceptibly as they gripped the steering wheel. Turning slightly, he stared down at the slender hardcover book on the seat beside him. He reached out and picked it up, holding it to his chest. And it was there, alone on that mountainous road in the middle of a downpour, that he allowed himself to succumb to a rare moment of weakness.

Even after the rain had lessened to a drizzle, he didn't move. He couldn't. How could he go back to the 4077th, knowing that Malone would not be there? Knowing that everything in that blasted camp would remind him of her? He wouldn't be able to bear it. He could hardly even bear to _think_ about it.

Involuntarily, he looked over at Malone's hat, still lying on the passenger seat. He was inevitably reminded of the first time he had seen it on her, the day she had arrived. He could recall with perfect clarity how she had looked as she sat half-dozing at one of the tables in the mess tent — her Class A uniform rumpled, her eyelids drooping behind her glasses, her messy red hair escaping from its loose bun under that hat. She had looked so comically disheveled. How could he have ever known that he would end up surrendering himself, body and soul, to that frazzled little thing?

If only he had known. He would have done so many things differently. He had made so many mistakes, wasted so much time that he could have spent simply enjoying Malone's company. He could have taken her dancing, or on picnics, or even to Tokyo. Instead, he had belittled her heritage, criticized her judgment in O.R. and then refused to forgive her for becoming angry, deliberately alienated her, and lied to her about his true feelings. He had done everything to drive her away that he could have possibly done.

Yet, for all that, she loved him. _Him._

And, fool that he was, he had just put her on a plane which was taking her further away from him with every passing second.

Never again would Charles hear her whistling in the operating room. He still remembered the way his heart had leapt into his throat at the sound, even before he had known it was her. Never again would they play Go in the Officers' Club while the other patrons looked on, baffled and bemused by their intense concentration. His thoughts drifted back to the night of the Christmas party, when she had given him that Go board. It had been on that same night that she had first embraced him.

He thought of their first kiss, on the porch of that farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. The way Malone's soft lips had felt, pressing against his for the first time. The memory of it still made him shiver, even now.

Oh, God. How could he face another day in this place without her?

He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand. That was quite enough of that. He was a Winchester, for heaven's sake. Winchesters did not give in to despair, and they certainly did not indulge in self-pity. Or, if they did, they didn't do it on the side of the road, where anyone could pass by and see them.

Easing back onto the road, Charles drove on, passing presently through the little town of Uijeongbu. All was quiet, and no one was walking through the streets. The rain had driven everyone into their homes.

Before long, the wooden signpost of the 4077th came into view. He pulled into the compound and switched off the engine, tucking both book and cap carefully inside his jacket. As he climbed out of his jeep, he looked around. There was very little activity here, either. The camp seemed sad, empty, lifeless.

As he trudged through the puddles toward the Swamp, a pair of nurses emerged from the mess tent. They caught sight of him, and their features flooded with sympathy. Charles suppressed a sigh. He supposed he would have to get used to that.

Inside the Swamp, Pierce and Hunnicutt were playing cards with Danny. The boy was not due back at the 28th Medical Dispensary for another day. To be sure, it was safer there than at the front lines, but if Charles's experiences in Korea had taught him anything, it was that nowhere was truly safe.

As he entered, the others looked up at him. "Welcome back, Charles," said Pierce, his voice unusually mild.

Charles nodded silently. For the present, he didn't trust himself to speak.

"You were gone for quite a while," Hunnicutt observed quietly, watching him above his cards. "Was Nellie's plane delayed?"

He shook his head. Striding over to his corner of the Swamp, he took the book and cap from his jacket and stowed them safely away in the drawer of his desk. He turned, and found Danny smiling up at him. The boy's smile was so much like his sister's that Charles could hardly bear to look at him.

"Would you like to play some poker?" he asked. "We could use a fourth."

Charles merely shook his head again. Without a word, he walked out of the Swamp.

He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he could not face anyone. Not yet. On their own accord, his feet took him in the direction of the Officers' Club. At this time of day, it would almost certainly be empty. Perhaps there he could be alone with his thoughts for a while.

Sure enough, as he pulled the door open and stepped inside, he found that all the lights were off. He switched them on and meandered over to his preferred table in the corner, feeling rather like he was in a dream. Propping his elbows on the table, he leaned forward and put his head in his hands, closing his eyes.

He wondered where Malone was at that moment. Somewhere over the Sea of Japan, no doubt. If he recalled correctly, that was where Colonel Henry Blake's plane had been shot down. Suddenly he wished he hadn't thought about that.

He should have made her promise to call when she got to Tokyo, not San Francisco. Too many things could go wrong on the way. And if her flight to Honolulu was delayed for some reason, and she was detained for several hours, he wouldn't know of it until much later. Naturally, he would assume the worst had happened. Perhaps she would realize that, and decide to call from Tokyo anyway. He could only hope.

So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he failed to hear the sound of the door of the Officers' Club swinging open and shut. It was not until he heard the harsh scrape of a stool being pulled across the floor that he realized he was no longer alone. Opening his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of Klinger sitting on the other side of his table, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a snifter of cognac in the other.

"This one's on me, Major," he said, placing the latter in front of Charles.

When he spoke, his throat felt raw and irritated. "Isn't eleven-thirty in the morning a little early to be drinking?" he asked dryly.

Klinger gave an apathetic shrug. "What difference does it make? This place is Hell twenty-four hours a day."

He shook his head, wishing the man would just go away. "I don't want your sympathy, Klinger," he said wearily.

In response, the clerk only pushed the drink closer to him. "I'm buying you a drink, Charles," he said in a low, firm voice. "Don't try to stop me."

Charles looked up at Klinger, surprised by his use of his first name. As he returned the man's gaze, he noticed for the first time that his dark eyes were rimmed with red.

Slowly, he nodded, taking the snifter in his hand. As he did so, Klinger lifted his own drink in the air. "A toast," he said quietly. "To sweet Nellie Malone."

As they clinked their glasses together, Charles didn't bother to brush away the tear that rolled down his cheek. "To sweet Nellie Malone," he murmured hoarsely in reply.

* * *

A/N: I have very little to say in my own defense, except this: it will get less sad. I swear on my life that this story has a happy ending. It's so happy, you guys won't even know what to do with yourselves. In the meantime, I do apologize for the depressing content of this chapter. In all honesty, it was the most difficult one to write so far. That's probably why it took me a month. Argh.

If you have the time, do tell me what you thought. Thank you for reading. You're awesome.

-Octopus


	29. A Tough Act to Follow

A/N: Firstly, thank you so much for all your reviews of the last chapter. I realize it wasn't easy to read. Heck, it wasn't easy to write. Secondly, I apologize for the long wait you've had to endure for this chapter. I was experiencing technical difficulties. In other words, my computer up and _died_. Thankfully, I had all my writing on a flash drive, so it didn't get deleted. But I couldn't work on this story until I got a new computer, and that took a while. Meanwhile, your patience and long-suffering is very much appreciated. Thanks, as always, to **blown-transistor**, my mega rad beta reader. You're so good to proof-read all my ridiculously verbose chapters. :)

Disclaimer: The 4077th and its inhabitants are not mine. Though if they were, I promise I'd feed and play with them every day.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Tough Act to Follow

The historic Hotel Whitcomb, located on Market Street, was one of the oldest hotels in San Francisco. Built in 1916 after the Great Earthquake, it was an enormous structure fashioned in the Edwardian style of architecture typical of the decade in which it was erected. Once, it had been an impressive building, and vestiges of its former glory were still to be seen in the opulent lobby, with its marble columns, Tiffany glass, and crystal chandeliers. In its heyday, no doubt, it must have been a truly grand hotel.

In her room on the seventh floor, Nellie was forced to acknowledge that grand wasn't always a good thing. In this case, it certainly wasn't. Sadly, the magnificent old pile had suffered the effects of neglect over the decades. Though the room was certainly beautifully decorated, it had clearly not been maintained. The curtains were worn, the wallpaper was peeling, there were tiles missing from the floor of the little bathroom, and the whole place had an unpleasantly musty smell. _Historic charm, without the charm,_ she thought with a rueful smile.

Then there was also the fact that the neighborhood in which it was located wasn't exactly the safest in downtown San Francisco. Needless to say, it definitely would not have been Nellie's first choice. But her uncle Will had insisted that it was a wonderful hotel, and that he had stayed in it a number of times without incident. However, he had also told her quite gleefully on the elevator ride to their floor that several rooms in the Whitcomb were purported to be haunted. The fact that Nellie did not believe in apparitions did very little to lessen her unease; if there was ever a more ideal space for ghosts to inhabit, it was this one.

Besides, Nellie had to question the judgment of a man who had married a woman twenty-three years his junior, with no discernable skills and the I.Q. of a potato.

On the plus side, though, her room did have a telephone.

Nellie yawned for the twentieth time as she sat against the headboard of her lumpy bed, the telephone receiver tucked under her ear and her leg propped up by several pillows. She had been on hold for longer than she cared to think about, and it was becoming a struggle simply to keep her eyes open. It had been such a long, exhausting day. But she couldn't rest yet. Not without letting her friends know she was all right.

Just when she was certain she could not hold her eyelids open for another second, there was suddenly a voice in her ear, telling her that she was being patched through to the mobile hospital unit in Uijeongbu, South Korea. A few moments later, and she heard a familiar nasal baritone that instantly lifted her spirits.

"_Nellie!_"

"Hey, Maximus," she replied with a tired smile. "I'm sorry if I woke you." According to her wristwatch, which she had yet to update to Pacific Standard time, it was nearly three in the morning at the 4077th.

"No, no, I was already awake," was Klinger's reply. "I've been waiting for your call. How was your flight? Did everything go smoothly?"

She nodded, forgetting momentarily that he couldn't actually see her. "Very smoothly. More smoothly than I'm used to, in fact. I kept waiting for something to go horribly, catastrophically wrong." She shrugged. "Force of habit, I guess."

"Yeah. I know what you mean."

"I apologize for not calling sooner," she went on. "I wanted to call when I landed in Tokyo, but there wasn't time. Apparently those pilots run on a tight schedule. They wouldn't even let me off the plane in Honolulu. We stopped just long enough to refuel, and then we were in the air again."

"Ah, don't worry about it," Klinger said dismissively. "Just as long as you made it to San Francisco all right. Where are you staying?"

Nellie smiled wryly. "The Hotel Whitcomb. It's very old, and it's showing its age. Oh, and it's supposedly haunted, as well."

"Sounds like a great place to shoot a horror film."

She laughed. "Actually, it's not all that bad. Normally, they don't even let their guests check in until three P.M., but my uncle knows one of the desk clerks, and he was kind enough to get our rooms ready early."

"What time is it in San Francisco, anyway?" Klinger asked.

She stifled a yawn. "Almost eleven o'clock Wednesday morning."

"You mean it's still yesterday there? Holy Toledo, Nellie! You went back in time!"

Nellie laughed again. Heaven help her, she missed that goofball already.

Speaking of people she missed like crazy... "Is Charles there?" she asked hopefully, twisting the telephone cord around her finger. "Can I talk to him?"

"He's back in the Swamp," Klinger replied. "I had to kick him out of here a few hours ago. He was wearing a hole in the floor of my office with his pacing." She heard the scrape of his chair. "I'll get him for you. Hang on."

"Try to hurry," she urged him. "I don't know how long this connection will last."

As she waited, listening to the crackle of static in the earpiece, Nellie chewed at her nails impatiently. Then an image of Kellye's disapproving frown flashed through her mind, and she quickly brought her hand back down to her lap.

At length, there was the sound of a door swinging on its hinges. And then: "Malone?"

Nellie grinned. "Charles."

"Oh, thank God," he said, his voice filled with relief. "At last. The suspense was becoming unbearable."

She felt her heart twist in sympathy. "I'm sorry. I wanted to call from Tokyo, but—"

"It's all right. Klinger already explained everything. How are you? How is your leg? Are you in very much pain?"

"Nothing that a couple of mimosas from the hotel bar can't cure," she said, only half-jokingly.

Her attempt at light humor went unnoticed by him. "You must be so tired."

Nellie smiled at his concern. "No. I was earlier, but I'm not anymore." Her smile faded, and she was unable to hold back a sigh. "It already feels like an eternity since I saw you last."

"Doesn't it, though," Charles agreed quietly.

There was a silence, and Nellie began to fear that the call had been dropped. But then he spoke again, his voice low: "I don't know how long I can endure in this place without you."

She felt another pang. "Oh, my love," she murmured commiseratingly. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm not entirely sure how long I'll last in the company of my relatives." She rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Between you and me, I've only been with them for a couple of hours, and my aunt is already driving me to distraction. She's absolutely convinced that my surgical scar will prevent me from ever getting a husband." Without being aware of it, she had begun mimicking a strangling motion with the telephone receiver. "I was tempted to throw myself out of the car on the way to the hotel."

There was another, shorter silence. When Charles spoke, it was clear that he hadn't heard the majority of her tirade. "Do you know, that is the second time you've called me that," he said in an odd tone.

Nellie's eyebrows drew together. "Called you what?" she asked, confused. And then it dawned on her. "Oh. You mean 'my love'?" She felt her cheeks grow warm in embarrassment. "Well, it's true, isn't it?"

"I should certainly hope so," he said warmly.

She smiled. And then his voice was in her ear again, speaking in a considerably sharper tone: "Klinger, if you think for one second that I'm going to tell you what she said, you really _are_ mad."

Nellie found she was grinning ear-to-ear. "You enjoy being truculent, don't you?"

"I enjoy the fact that you used the word 'truculent' in a sentence."

"I use lots of words in lots of sentences," she replied with dignity.

"Ah," he said with a disappointed sigh, "now, you see, I'm afraid that sounded rather less impressive."

Nellie burst out laughing. "I adore you, Charles," she said fondly. "Remember that the next time things get a little too crazy over there."

"I shall do my best," he answered grimly. "Where are your relations now? I do hope they are not within earshot."

"Oh, no," she assured him. "I can speak freely. My uncle Will is at the restaurant downstairs, ordering breakfast for all of us, and my aunt is..." She blew out an exasperated breath. "She's lying down in the room across the hall, with a cool cloth on her head. It seems the drive up from Malibu gave her a tension headache."

"Good Lord." The distaste was evident in Charles's voice. "And this woman is in charge of your recuperation?"

"Unfortunately." She sighed. "I love my uncle, but he married an utter dingbat."

"Ah, Malone, you do have such a colorful way with words," he told her, making her chuckle. "Well, rest while you can, darling. I would give anything to be there with you."

Nellie's grip tightened on the phone receiver. "So would I," she said, her eyes beginning to sting. "Tell Danny and everyone else hello for me."

"Of course," he replied. "I love you, Malone. Take care, my—"

There was a loud hissing in her ear, followed by a click, and then silence.

With another sigh, Nellie placed the telephone in its cradle. She took off her glasses to dab briefly at her eyes with the handkerchief Klinger had given her. And then, as she returned her glasses to her face, she suddenly shrieked as she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye, which proved to be a mouse scurrying along the baseboard of the wall.

She exhaled slowly, her hand over her pounding heart. "And here I thought I'd left the petting zoo behind," she muttered.

* * *

In the dingy canvas confines of the chaplain's tent, Danny Malone gave one last look around to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. A pretty pointless exercise, he was swiftly forced to acknowledge; he didn't have any of his possessions with him — not even the clothes on his back. Upon his arrival at the 4077th, his own fatigues had been torn and stained beyond repair, and had been disposed of almost immediately. The ones he wore now belonged to Private Straminsky, the only person in the camp whose measurements were even close to his own. At the moment, all Danny had to his name were his dog tags.

It was with mixed feelings that the boy contemplated his impending journey back to Seoul. On the one hand, he was anxious to reunite with his friends at the medical dispensary — the ones who had survived the attack on the convoy, anyway. He was aware that the full weight of that massacre had yet to sink in for him. He had been so preoccupied with his sister's injury and subsequent departure, he hadn't allowed himself to devote much thought to it. But now, he was forced to realize that he had no idea how many of his comrades had escaped along with him.

It was strange; there were some aspects of that attack that Danny could remember with disturbing clarity, while other aspects were a complete blur. He could still hear the bullets whizzing overhead, the screams of his fellow soldiers, the frantic order to retreat. But when he tried to recall which members of the convoy had been killed and which had managed to get away, his memory drew a blank. All he could see in his mind's eye were faceless bodies lying sprawled on the ground. Anonymous olive drab splattered with red.

Objectively, Danny knew that there was nothing he could have done to help them. If he had tried, it was more than likely that he would have been killed or taken captive, as well. But that knowledge did little to assuage his guilt over having survived, when so many others had perished.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced himself to take several slow, even breaths. There was nothing to be gained by wallowing in self-recrimination. If he had died, it would have broken Nellie's heart. He had to remember that.

_Oh, Nellie._ He wondered how she was faring under the dubious medical supervision of their relatives. Danny had always liked Uncle Will; some of his fondest childhood memories were of the camping trips he used to take with his uncle and Nellie. But Will was not as young as he used to be, and there were times when his rheumatism made it a challenge for him to get out of bed in the mornings. It didn't help that his wife Gloria was, in Danny's humble opinion, quite possibly the most useless person on the planet. Ironically, had Nellie stayed here in this mobile hospital in the middle of war-torn Korea, she would have been in much better hands.

But then again, that was the way of things. Though Danny was young, he had learned from an early age that life could be perverse, unfair, and often downright ridiculous.

With a sigh, he willed himself into action. His jeep would be arriving soon to take him back to Seoul, and he still had yet to say all of his goodbyes.

As he stepped out of the chaplain's tent and into the compound, he was pleased to see that the rain of the past few days had lessened to a fine mist. Thank God. Nellie, of course, had always loved the rain. Danny could take it or leave it.

He would be sad to leave this place. Though all told, the days he had spent here could be counted on two hands, he would never forget them. It was no secret that the 4077th had a reputation for being one of the most unruly, undisciplined, uncivilized military units in all of Korea. Stories abounded of wild parties, insubordinate surgeons, and transvestite company clerks. (Danny had to laugh at that last one.) Still, it didn't take a genius to see that, for whatever reason, it seemed to work for them. Their 98% survival rate simply couldn't be ignored.

Besides, the 4077th was just plain _fun_.

Hurrying across the compound, Danny ducked through a door and found himself in the Post-Operative Recovery Ward. After a quick glance around, he smiled as he found who he was looking for.

His hands in his pockets, he strolled nonchalantly over to the desk in the corner, where its occupant was absorbed in reading a letter. After a long moment, during which his presence went completely unnoticed, he leaned over and spoke in a deep, booming voice.

"Kealani Kellye, this is the voice of God! I command you to build me a luau pit three hundred cubits in length, and barbecue two of every animal!"

Lieutenant Kellye sprang out of her chair like she'd been stung by a bee. After quickly covering the letter she had been reading, she turned and fixed him with a glare that could have melted a hole through a sheet of steel. "Danny Malone!" she said furiously, reaching up and swatting him on the arm. "You rotten little boy! What would your sister say if she knew you went around giving nurses heart attacks in your spare time?"

He gave a shrug. "Probably hit me. Like you just did. You girls are all alike, you know." The nurse sighed in exasperation, though not without a smile that she couldn't quite suppress. "Hey, it's your own fault that you didn't hear me. I'm not exactly built for stealth. What were you reading with such rapt attention, anyway?"

Kellye folded her arms across her chest, blushing slightly. "That's none of your business," she said archly.

"A love letter from a beau, perhaps?" Her blush deepened, causing Danny's eyebrows to climb upward. "Oh-ho! That was just a wild guess! Well, well, this _is_ interesting. Does this beau have a name? Does Nellie know?"

Unamused, Kellye simply stood, regarding him with a look she might give a hyper-active toddler. "Are you finished?" she asked at length.

He nodded.

"Good." She returned to her chair. "To answer your questions, yes, he has a name, yes, Nellie knows, and _no_, I am not going to tell you."

"Not even if I tell you how profoundly sorry I am for scaring you out of your wits?"

"Nope."

Danny knelt beside her chair, his hands clasped in front of him. "Not even if I confess my undying love for you?"

She glanced at him sideways, a slight smirk on her face. "Nice try, but no."

"Come on," he insisted. "I promise I won't tell another human being. Who would I tell, anyway? I'm going back to Seoul today." His eyes widened dramatically. "Unless... Is it someone in Seoul? It's not Private Stuckey, is it? For God's sake, Kellye, the man smells like gorgonzola."

"It is not anyone in Seoul!" she exclaimed impatiently. She gave him a long look, her almond eyes narrowed appraisingly. "You're really leaving today?"

"Yep."

"And you promise you won't tell anyone?"

"My word is my bond," he said solemnly.

"Well..." With a small smile, she leaned over and spoke in a low, confiding tone. "His name is Miles Sullivan."

"The Irish soldier?" Danny blurted. She smacked him again, and he belatedly lowered his own voice. "Nellie told me about him. She said he was a swell guy." He whistled. "So you and Sullivan really are...?"

Her attempt at a casual shrug was rendered somewhat futile by the grin of excitement that lit up her face. "A little bit, yeah," she admitted sheepishly.

Danny gave her shoulder a squeeze. "That's fantastic, Kellye. I'm happy for you."

He really was. Kellye may not have been conventionally attractive, but there was definitely something appealing about her. Maybe it was her infectious smile, or her pert, bouncy dark hair, or the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. Or maybe it was just the special gift she had of making _other_ people feel special. Whatever the reason, it was easy to see why Nellie loved her to pieces. Though Danny had only spoken with her a handful of times, he already felt like he had known her forever. Or at least, well enough to tease her mercilessly.

"I just hope Sullivan knows what a catch you are," he told her.

Kellye smiled again. "Funny," she murmured, "that's just what your sister said."

"Great minds think alike," he replied smugly as he rose to his feet. She merely rolled her eyes. "Listen, I'd better get going. I just wanted to say goodbye. And to thank you for being such a good friend to Nellie."

"Well, aren't you a sweetheart?" She rose from her chair and gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. "Be good, Danny. Or I'll tell your sister."

"Oh, good Lord. We can't have that." She laughed as she resumed her seat. "Say hi to Miles for me," he added, batting his eyelashes at her.

"Danny, get out of here!"

He chuckled as he headed for the door.

In the adjoining clerk's office, Klinger was at his desk, which was awash in a sea of papers. "Maxwell, old thing," he said in a rather awful attempt at an English accent. "Just the chap I was looking for."

At the sound of his voice, Klinger whirled around in his chair so quickly that it was entirely possible that he might have given himself whiplash. "Danny!" he exclaimed, rocketing to his feet. "Where the hell have you been, kid? Don't you know we've been looking all over the camp for you?"

Danny jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Post-Op. "I was just in the—"

"Never mind," Klinger cut him off. "Come with me."

The swarthy corporal grabbed him by the sleeve. Nonplussed, Danny allowed himself to be dragged into the C.O.'s office. His confusion increased at the sight of Colonel Potter, Captain Pierce, and Father Mulcahy, who all appeared to be waiting for him.

"Private Malone," said Potter. "It's about time. I was just about to call you over the P.A. system."

"Colonel?" he asked slowly. "What's going on?"

The older man gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat, son."

His bewilderment growing by the second, Danny lowered himself into the chair. As he did so, Potter pushed a sheet of paper across the desk to him. Curious, he leaned forward to see what it was. What he saw made his heart skip a beat.

It was a request form for a hardship transfer.

"It's already been filled out," said Potter. "All you've got to do is sign it."

Speechless, Danny simply stared.

"You trying to catch flies there, kid?" asked Pierce.

He realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it quickly, his teeth clicking audibly. "I, I don't understand," he stammered.

"You will, Danny," Mulcahy assured him.

"Captain Pierce and Corporal Klinger here have informed me that your uncle and aunt aren't in a position to care for your sister," the colonel explained. "In light of the fact that both of your parents are deceased, and _especially_ in light of the circumstances which caused her injury, I'd say that poor girl deserves to have her closest blood relation with her, to help her through her convalescence."

"And we're hoping the Army can be persuaded to agree," added Pierce.

"I can't make any promises that the request will be approved," Potter went on. "And it might take anywhere from a few weeks to several months. But it's the least we can do."

Danny could hardly believe his ears. In his experience, soldiers went wherever they were told, and they did so without complaint. When he had received his transfer orders, he had just assumed that he would remain in Korea until his hitch was over — or until he got shot or blown to bits, whichever came first. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine that his superiors would be trying to send him home. It was all too preposterous and wonderful to be true.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Father Mulcahy smiling down at him. "Nellie's taken good care of you," he said in his mild, pleasant voice. "Now it's time for you to take care of her."

Danny shook his head, overwhelmed. "I don't know what to say," he began, his throat tight. "I can't thank you enough for this."

"Don't thank us yet, son," Potter told him. "There's no guarantee that it'll go through."

"Doesn't matter. The fact that you're trying..." He swallowed. "Now I know why Nell's so crazy about all of you."

"That's because she has impeccable taste." Pierce nudged him from behind. "Well, go on. Sign your salvation already."

Unable to hold back a grin, Danny took up a pen and signed the request form. With a flourish, Klinger picked it up and tucked it securely under his arm. "I'll get it sent off right away," he said.

"Thank you, sirs," said Danny. "_All_ of you sirs. If there's ever anything you want from the medical dispensary, just name it. Even unto half my kingdom."

Mulcahy chuckled. "A most generous offer."

"We'll let you know when we need some more bandages," said Potter with a wink.

From out in the compound came the sudden sound of a jeep horn. "Oh, God, that's my ride," Danny exclaimed, clambering to his feet. "I can't leave yet! I haven't said goodbye to Major Winchester!"

Pierce waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. He'll understand."

"No, no, I have to say goodbye. If I don't, Nellie will have my head for sure." He moved toward the door, pausing to offer a hasty salute. "Thank you again. Really. You people are amazing."

Klinger clapped him on the back. "See you around, kid. Don't be a stranger."

"Go with God, Danny," Mulcahy said kindly.

"And go _quickly_," Pierce added.

"Right!"

He dashed out of the C.O.'s office and into the compound, where a jeep and driver were waiting for him. After requesting five more minutes, he hurried past the idling vehicle and over to the Swamp.

Rapping lightly on the door with his knuckles, he called, "Major Winchester?" There was no answer. "Charles?" he tried again.

He was about to leave when he heard the terse reply: "Enter."

Danny opened the door and stepped inside. Though it was the middle of the day, the tent was dark, save for the dim light from a single lamp above Winchester's — _Charles's_, he had to keep reminding himself — bed. Under the light of the lamp was Charles himself. And though it was the middle of the day, he was lying supine on his cot, clad in his dressing gown, a pair of slippers on his feet. In his hands was a book. A very familiar book.

"O, had I but followed the arts," said Danny. Charles raised his eyes to his, and he smiled slightly. "_Twelfth Night_. Nellie's favorite. Although," he added, "I suspect you already knew that."

Charles's lips twitched in a faint, half-hearted smile. "Indeed."

Danny cleared his throat as he came over to stand beside the major's cot. "I, uh... I'm headed back to Seoul. I wanted to see you before I left."

"Yes, of course. Where are my manners?" Carefully setting the book on his bedside table, Charles stood and grasped his hand. "It's been a pleasure having you with us, Daniel. Do come again."

There was something curiously affected about his words, as though he were merely reciting them out of long-ingrained habit. Danny looked at him with some concern. To all appearances, he was the same well-bred, polite, slightly aloof and vaguely intimidating man he had been since their very first introduction. There was certainly nothing in his demeanor to suggest that there was anything troubling him.

Nothing, except for the fact that he seemed to be either unwilling or unable to look Danny in the eye.

"Err... yes," Danny replied. "I mean, thank you. I will." His own gaze lighted on the book, and he reached over to pick it up. Charles stiffened for an instant, as if he were resisting the urge to stop him. "I didn't realize Nell had given this to you," he said as he turned it over in his hands. "She's always been such a freak about letting other people touch her books. Especially this one. She must really be crazy about you."

The major said nothing. A brief look of pain crossed his features, and Danny's concern increased. He wasn't his usual self. Not by a long shot.

Before she had left, Nellie had told Danny — after making him swear to absolute secrecy — that when Charles was a child, he had been through a very traumatic experience. Once, during a night shift in Post-Op, he had confided in her that he had once had a younger brother named Timothy — always affectionately referred to by him as "Timmy". There had been only an eleven-month difference in age between them. In such cases, with siblings so close in age, there were often rivalries, but not so with Charles and Timmy. The two had been inseparable. But then, shortly after Charles's ninth birthday, sudden tragedy had struck.

It was in the middle of winter, and the Winchesters were at their country estate in Wellesley, just outside of Boston. The groundskeeper had told the boys that he had seen a willow ptarmigan in the woods to the west of the manor. Charles and Timmy had listened with mingled excitement and skepticism; apparently, that particular species of bird had not been seen in Massachusetts since the nineteenth century. The younger boy suggested that they take their father's camera and try to photograph the bird, but Charles knew better than to risk the wrath of the patriarch Winchester. Despite his efforts, however, his brother would not be dissuaded. The next morning, both the camera and Timmy were gone.

As the hours passed, and there was still no sign of the youngest Winchester, a search party was sent out to look for him. And then, just as dusk descended, they found him in the woods, still and cold and half-buried in a snow bank. Hypothermia had set in, causing him to become confused and disoriented. He had simply gone to sleep in the snow.

The news of Timmy's death hit young Charles with the force of a freight train. He stopped eating. He stopped talking. He couldn't even walk past his brother's room without trembling uncontrollably. His parents took him to numerous psychiatrists, assuming his affliction could be cured like any other ailment, but none of them had much success. It was not until the birth of his sister Honoria that Charles finally seemed to come out of his grief-induced stupor. She became his entire world, and he was fiercely protective of her. But he was never quite the same again.

At the time, Danny hadn't been sure why Nellie had told him this sad and deeply personal story. He had assumed she had been trying to explain to him why Charles was so reserved, why he so rarely let his guard down. But now, he had to wonder if there was a different reason.

Staring down at the book in his hands, he spoke slowly, choosing his words with great care. "Don't tell Nellie I said this. She really has been good to me. I couldn't have wished for a better sister. But I always secretly wished that I'd had a brother. There are some things you can't tell a sister. Some things a sister just can't teach you." He shrugged awkwardly. "But anyway, if things work out between you and Nell — and I really hope they do — then I guess you and I will be brothers. Or close enough." He gave a crooked smile. "I think I'd like that."

He looked up at Charles. He couldn't be sure if it was his imagination, or the dim light playing tricks on him, but he could almost swear that there were tears in the major's eyes.

"Yes. Well." The older man cleared his throat. "You'd better get back to your unit, unless you wish to trade your 'Missing in Action' status for 'Absent Without Leave'."

Danny nodded. "Right. I wouldn't want that." He held out the book to Charles, who took it from him gingerly, holding it like it was some holy relic. "Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you," he said. "Colonel Potter is trying to get me a hardship transfer. If it goes through, I'll be stationed close enough to Nellie to take care of her. At least, better care than she's probably getting right now."

This time, Charles's smile was less strained. "That's wonderful news, Daniel," he said sincerely.

Danny returned his smile. Then he rolled his eyes as the impatient honking of a car horn broke the silence. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" He shook his head, annoyed. "Sorry. Duty calls."

"So I hear." Charles grasped his hand again. For a long moment, he simply held it tightly. "Daniel," he said at last, his voice low. "To say that I wish you a safe journey would be, as your sister would put it, the understatement of the century." He squeezed his hand. "_Please_, take care of yourself. For her sake."

Danny had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat. "You, too, Charles."

_For her sake... and yours._

* * *

Hawkeye heaved a histrionic sigh, picking at the label on his bottle of beer. "Margaret, it's just one word. You're not writing the great American novel."

"Hush, you. I'm thinking."

"Think faster. I'm starting to grow moss over here."

Margaret simply made a face at him over the Scrabble board, before returning her attention to her tiles. Apart from the two of them, the Officers' Club was mostly deserted, except for a few sleepy servicemen and Igor Straminsky, who sat yawning behind the bar. Hawkeye was glad, as always, to have someone to play one of his favorite games with, but he wished she would hurry up and take her turn already. He had enough letters to spell "opaque", and he couldn't wait to see the look on her face when he got that Triple Word Score.

As he sat waiting for Margaret to make her move, Hawkeye's mind began to wander. It had been a little over a week since Nellie Malone had gone back to the States, and the 4077th wasn't quite the same in her absence. He hadn't realized how much of an impact the quiet, bookish young nurse had made, until she was gone. The mood of the place had definitely changed, though. Things were just a tad more subdued, and a tad less jovial. He was glad, of course, that she was home, where it was safe. But he had to admit, he missed the little elf.

His gaze drifted down to the Scrabble board, and he discovered that his opponent had made her move when he wasn't looking. "_Mar_-garet! I was going to put _my_ word there!"

"You snooze, you lose, bucko." She pointed a finger at the notepad, where he was keeping score. "Forty-six points. Write that down. That's a Triple Word Score."

"Oh, sure. Rub it in. Just don't ever ask me if you can borrow a cup of vowels." Exhaling loudly in annoyance, he placed his own tiles on the board.

Margaret raised her eyebrows. "'Mop'? That's all you've got?"

He growled at her, and she simply grinned.

Rolling his eyes, Hawkeye drew two more tiles and arranged them in front of him. W and Z. Fantastic.

As Margaret contemplated her next move, she said, "I've put in a request for a new nurse."

"Oh, yeah?" Hawkeye set down his beer in mild surprise. "Already?"

"What do you mean, already? It's been a week."

He shrugged. "I don't know. It just seems... kind of sudden, don't you think?"

"Pierce," she said, looking at him across the table with some exasperation. "You make it sound like Malone _died_. She's just gone home, that's all. The sooner we train a replacement, the better off the whole camp will be."

"I guess." Hawkeye picked up his beer and took a slug. "I'll miss that girl, you know? I'll miss her goofy smile, and the way she snorted when she laughed. And I'll _really_ miss the way she imitated Charles when he wasn't around to see it."

Margaret smirked slightly. "You know what I _won't_ miss? The way she used to whistle in O.R."

He shot her a skeptical look. "Really?"

As she returned his gaze, her smirk faded. "No," she admitted quietly. "Not really."

Hawkeye reached out across the board and patted her hand in sympathy. "Margaret?" he said after a moment.

"Hmm?"

"Could you ask them to send us a blonde this time?"

She kicked him under the table. "You jackass."

He reached down and rubbed his shin. "Fine, I'll settle for a brunette."

The door of the Officers' Club swung open on its squeaking hinges, and B.J. came in, irritation showing plainly in his clean-cut, wholesome features. Immediately he shuffled over to the bar and ordered a martini.

As Straminsky mixed his drink, Hawkeye twisted around in his chair, frowning at him in confusion. "Hey, what gives?" he asked. "Why don't you just make yourself a martini in the Swamp?"

B.J. shook his head. "No, no, no way," he said vehemently. "I'm not going to the Swamp. I can't stand to be in that place a second longer. Not while Charles is in there."

That was all Hawkeye needed to hear. Ever since Malone had left, Charles had been poor company, to say the very least. Granted, even in the best of circumstances, he wasn't exactly the life of the party. But this something else entirely. Hawkeye was beginning to suspect the man might be seriously depressed.

As Straminsky handed B.J. his martini, Hawkeye pushed his stool back from the table and stood up. "Come over and take my place for a minute, will you?"

"Sure thing."

"Where are you going?" Margaret asked.

He downed the luke-warm remnants of his beer. "To pay a house call."

"You're braver than I am," B.J. remarked as he sat down. "Hey, did you know you only need two more letters to spell 'opaque'?"

Rolling his eyes, Hawkeye left the Officers' Club. As he stepped out into the compound, he paused to pull the hood of his raincoat over his head. The rains had returned in earnest, and the camp had been transformed once again into a giant mud pit. He wondered, not for the first time, just where all that precipitation came from.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he sloshed off toward the Swamp. As he drew closer to his humble abode, he frowned as his ears picked up a melancholy sound above the patter of the rain: the plaintive wailing of a violin. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door to the Swamp and ducked inside.

As he pushed back the hood of his raincoat, he found himself witness to a sorry spectacle. Charles was slumped over on his cot next to his record player, his dressing gown slung carelessly around his shoulders. He was unshaven and bleary-eyed, and looked, in Hawkeye's opinion, not unlike a homeless vagrant. He was reading Malone's copy of _Twelfth Night_ for probably the millionth time, running his fingers over the notations she had scribbled in the margins.

Hawkeye had had enough of this. "That's it," he announced, walking over and lifting the needle from the record player. "Hand over the book, Charles."

"No!" Charles twisted out of his reach, clutching the book to his chest. "Get away from me, Pierce."

Hawkeye could smell liquor on his breath. "Are you drunk?" he asked incredulously.

"You tell me," the Bostonian slurred. "You are, after all, the leading authority on the subject of in... ineb... riation."

"Oh, boy." Under normal circumstances, Hawkeye found Charles to be a pretty entertaining drunk; it was always a treat to see someone so dignified behaving like such a total idiot. At the moment, however, he just didn't have the heart to find the man's pain amusing.

He slapped him on the arm. "All right, Charles," he said firmly. "Enough is enough. Pull yourself together. You're a Winchester."

"I don't want to be a Winchester," he replied petulantly.

"Well, now I know you're drunk, because that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say." Charles merely glared up at him through bloodshot eyes. "Look, I get it," Hawkeye told him. "You have every right to be upset. But don't you think _this_ has gone on long enough? I mean, what if Nellie saw you like this? What would she say?"

As he spoke, Charles's defensive glare faded, and was replaced by that special look of unconcealed misery characteristic of the well and truly plastered. "Oh, God," he moaned, his shoulders sagging. "You're right, Pierce. She would be ashamed of me. And rightly so."

He pointed to the open book in his hands. "Look at her handwriting," he said forlornly. "She made these notations when she was only fourteen years old. Fourteen, and already a little adult." He shook his head. "My Malone. So strong, so resilient. Even in the face of adversity. I've always prided myself on possessing those same qualities. And now look at me." He snorted in disgust. "She leaves, and I fall apart in a matter of days. You were right when you said she was better off without me. I don't deserve her."

"Oy," Hawkeye muttered under his breath, massaging his temples. When Charles lost it, he really _lost_ it.

With a sigh, he gently took the book from the man's hands and placed it on his desk. Then he removed his dripping raincoat and sat down on the cot beside him. "You know I didn't mean that, Charles," he said quietly. "You were getting on my nerves, that's all. I was just trying to get a rise out of you. Of _course_ you deserve her. You kids are two peas in a pod."

Charles didn't seem to hear him. "What if she forgets me?" he asked brokenly.

"Seriously?" Hawkeye couldn't keep from rolling his eyes. "You are easily the least forgettable man I've ever met, Charles. God knows _I'll_ never be able to forget you."

He pretended not to notice as Charles wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his dressing gown. "Listen," he said after a moment. "When my mom was alive, I used to watch her and my dad together. You know, when he'd come home from work, and she'd run down the driveway to meet him. Or when they'd sit together in front of the fire after dinner and just talk." He smiled slightly. "I remember thinking that they must have been the perfect couple, because they never got tired of each other. They were always happy to see each other, always happier when they were together."

He looked over at Charles. "To this day, the only other time I've seen that kind of happiness, that _real_ love, was when I saw you and Nellie together, on the night of her going-away party."

The other man sniffed, almost inaudibly. "It's okay to miss her," Hawkeye told him softly.

"Miss her?" Charles's breath hitched in his throat. "I can barely function without her."

"Yeah, well..." He gave a shrug. "You're going to have to. There are people in this camp who count on you, you know." He placed his hand on Charles's shoulder. "Just remember, Nellie may be strong, but she's not invincible. She still needs you. Be strong for her."

Charles was silent. He sighed and gave his shoulder a squeeze before getting to his feet. As he turned to leave, however, he heard the Bostonian speak in a low voice.

"Pierce... Thank you."

Hawkeye smiled to himself. "Don't mention it." He shook his head. "What am I saying? Of course you won't mention it. You won't even remember it in the morning."

"I know. That's why I'm saying it now."

A laugh escaped his lips. "You're all right, for a drunken wreck," he said.

"Thank you," Charles drawled. "You're not at all bad for a lecherous buffoon."

Hawkeye laughed again.

* * *

When Charles woke in the morning, he immediately wished he hadn't.

He rolled over on his narrow cot, his head pounding like a timpani drum. His mouth felt like he had been eating sand, and somehow he had managed to fall asleep with his dressing gown on backwards. Throwing it off onto the floor, he hauled himself upright, rubbing at his dry, itchy eyes.

Good Lord, what had he become?

With a groan, he staggered to his feet and put his kettle on his hot plate. As he waited for the water to boil, he tried to remember what had happened the night before. He vaguely recalled becoming maudlin in front of Pierce, who had treated him with surprising decency and compassion. Curse the man.

The kettle began to whistle, and he realized he had been staring blankly off into space. With an effort, he shook himself out of his stupor and removed it from the hot plate, pouring a measure of steaming water into his teapot.

While the tea steeped, he glanced at the reflection of himself in his shaving mirror and gave a start, genuinely alarmed by what he saw. His eyes were raw and red, his chin unshaven, and his hair was a disaster. Thank goodness Malone wasn't here to see him like this. Then again, if she _was_ here, he wouldn't have felt the need to drink himself into absolute oblivion.

_That's quite enough of that,_ he told himself sternly, glaring at his reflection. It was not Malone's fault that he had fallen apart in such a pathetic and ridiculous display of weakness. He was more than certain that she was not in California at this moment, seeking relief from her woes at the bottom of a bottle and behaving like an utter fool. At least, as long as no one had been stupid enough to give her scotch.

Shaking his head, he sat down at his desk and poured himself a cup of tea. Then he winced in pain as the door of the Swamp suddenly banged open loudly, and Colonel Potter stepped inside.

Charles groaned again, looking up at him through slitted eyelids. "Colonel," he croaked. "Not so loud, I beg of you."

Potter regarded him with raised eyebrows. "Got a sore melon, do you?" he asked. "That's not going to be a recurring ailment with you, is it?"

"No, sir," he answered. "I can assure you it won't happen again."

"Glad to hear it." The colonel came forward, and Charles noticed for the first time that he was holding a flat, rectangular object behind his back. "I've got something for you, Major," he said. "It's come to my attention that I'm up to my ears in oil paintings, so I've decided to do a little spring cleaning. I hate to throw anything away, though. So I thought you might like to have this one."

He held out the object. For a long moment, all Charles could do was stare. It was a painting of Malone, sitting in a chair, a book in her hands. A wayward tendril of red hair had fallen into her eyes, and she wore a look of intense concentration on her freckled face.

Slowly, he reached out and took the painting in his hands. "Colonel," he said at last. "This is wonderful."

"Then you'll take it?"

"I would be honored," he replied sincerely.

"Good." The older man leaned over his shoulder to look at it and gave a chuckle. "She's a funny little thing," he remarked. "I told her that all she had to do was sit there and pretend to read. But I couldn't tell you how many times I caught her turning the page when she thought I wasn't looking."

Charles smiled.

Potter straightened. "Have you told your folks about her yet?" he asked as he moved to the door.

He shook his head. "No. Not yet."

"Well, I wouldn't put it off for too long, if I were you. They deserve to know what a little gem she is."

Charles thanked him, and he left, closing the door a little more quietly this time. He propped up the painting on his desk, gazing at it while he sipped his tea, a faint smile on his face. Finally, he set down the cup and pulled out a pen and a sheet of paper. After a moment, he began to write.

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_I am aware that my correspondence has been somewhat sporadic in recent weeks, and I apologize for the lateness of this letter. I had meant to write you sooner, but things have been very hectic here in my unit, and I have been much preoccupied. One of our nurses was gravely injured while aiding in the escape of several Korean orphans during an aerial strike. While the incident was naturally distressing for everyone, it was especially so for me._

_You see, Mother and Father, I have a very personal interest in the welfare of this particular nurse. Her name is Fenella Iris Malone, and she is the dearest, most wonderful creature you are ever likely to meet. And meet her you shall. For the fact is, she is the young woman with whom I intend to spend the rest of my life. And it is high time I told you all about her._

* * *

A/N: In the Season Six episode "War of Nerves", Charles tells Sidney that he'd "had his fill of psychiatrists at the age of nine." It's more than likely that this was just a throw-away line, and has no real significance. But we also know that Charles was very young when his brother died. In my mind, anyway, it's quite possible that the two events are related.

Anywho. I'm glad this chapter is over, because the next one will be much happier. In fact, I can't wait to write it. In the meantime, I'd love to know what you thought. Too maudlin and ridiculous, as Charles would say? Ah, well. This is _M*A*S*H_, after all. ;)

-Octopus


	30. Back to Abnormal

A/N: Hey, fellow _M*A*S*H_-ers! Thank you all very much for your reviews, and for being so understanding about my technical difficulties. It was most rad of you. And thank you, **blown-transistor**, for your always-appreciated help as my beta reader. To make up for the delay, here's an extra long chapter. Hope you all like it!

By the way, this chapter could alternatively be titled "In Which the Dates Get a Little Screwy". In a way, it's almost a good thing that the _M*A*S*H_ timeline has so many inconsistencies. You can pretty much do whatever you want, and it doesn't make much difference.

Disclaimer: _M*A*S*H_ and its lovely characters are not my property. More's the pity.

* * *

The Wind and the Rain

Chapter Thirty: Back to Abnormal

_If faith long bound to one true goal  
__May there at length its hope beget,  
__My soul that hour shall draw your soul  
__For ever nearer yet._

— "Insomnia", Dante Gabriel Rosetti

_August 19, 1952_

Hawkeye Pierce yawned and slapped himself soundly across the cheek in a desperate attempt to stay awake. "Have you thought of something yet?"

Lying reclined his cot, B.J. Hunnicutt gave a sleepy nod. "Yup. Shoot."

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

"Uhh... Animal."

"Peter Lorre."

"No. And that counts as a real question. You've got eighteen left."

On his own side of the Swamp, Charles Winchester settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the dulcet strains of "Le cygne" from Saint-Saëns's _Carnival of the Animals_ instead of the incessant nattering of his tent mates. Of course, he knew very well which animal Hunnicutt was thinking of; he'd seen the blond man glance over at the swan pictured on the sleeve of his record. But he wasn't about to let Pierce in on it.

Then again, it might put an end to this ludicrous game.

Pierce gave another noisy yawn. "Is it bigger than a bread box?"

"Yes," said Charles without opening his eyes.

"Then it's definitely not Radar," the chief surgeon remarked. "And how do you know what Beej is thinking? Have you suddenly become telepathic?"

"The Amazing, All-Knowing Bald-O," Hunnicutt chimed in. "For the answers to life's great mysteries, just rub his head."

Charles suppressed a sigh. "I know what _Beej_ is thinking," he replied loftily, "because I am an acute observer of human behavior. And because, unlike you, I am not an intellectual Lilliputian."

"I would resent that remark, if I understood it," said Pierce, drawing a sardonic laugh from the Bostonian.

As his fellow surgeons persisted in their exercise in inanity, Charles leaned forward in his chair, wincing as he stretched the muscles in his tired back. He and the others had just endured twelve grueling hours in surgery. Under normal circumstances, they would all be unconscious by now, attempting in vain to catch up on their sleep debt, but the mail truck had rolled into the compound just as they had emerged from the O.R., and everyone was determined to stay awake until it was distributed. Letters from home, after all, were far more important than sleep.

Rummaging around in the drawer of his desk, he found an old newspaper and began fanning himself with it. The monsoon rains had finally subsided for the most part, but it was still infernally hot and sultry. He felt constantly sticky and uncomfortable, and there was not a thing to be done about it. Even taking a shower was futile; he barely had time to towel himself dry and get dressed before he was damp again. The weather in Korea certainly did have the charm of variety.

Pierce was down to his final five questions, and Charles was clinging precariously to the last shred of his patience, when at last there was a knock at the door, and Klinger shuffled into the Swamp, his dark hair plastered to his head from the humidity.

"Mail call," he announced wearily. "Get your letters while they're still legible."

"Thank God you're here, Klinger," said Charles. "Shove these two clods into that bag of yours and have them sent to Siberia. I'll even pay for the postage."

"At least we'd be nice and cool there," said Hunnicutt. "My captain's bars are starting to wilt."

"I'm glad to see I caught you on a good day, Major," Klinger remarked dryly. Charles merely grunted in reply. "Well, I think I've got something that should turn that murderous frown upside-down." As he spoke, he pulled an envelope out of his mail bag and waved it in the air. "A letter from Nellie."

The paper in Charles's hands fell to the ground with a flurry of newsprint. As he scrambled to his feet, Klinger held the letter to his nose and inhaled deeply. "Ah," he sighed wistfully, "smells like freedom."

"Give me that!" Charles snatched the envelope from the clerk's fingers.

"I was looking for a simple 'Thank you', but that works, too."

While Klinger handed out the rest of their correspondence and continued on his way, Charles returned to his chair with his prize, taking a moment to savor the sight of the familiarly fussy handwriting on the envelope. Then, smiling, he tore open the flap and pulled out several pages filled with dense script. As he began to read, a warm glow spread through him which had nothing to do with the weather.

_My Dearest Charles,_

_Greetings once again from Malibu, California, where the sun sets over the ocean and the heat continues to defy all logic. Are you getting tired of all my letters yet? I think my aunt and uncle are. I've appropriated every scrap of paper in their house, and I've already used almost all of it to write you, Danny, and the others. I took down a telephone message for my uncle yesterday, and I had to use my shirtcuff. Gloria was not happy with me._

_Speaking of Danny, have you heard the news? His transfer request went through! He'll be coming home soon! It seems too good to be true. When he told me how Hawkeye and Max and the colonel had all conspired to get him sent back to the States, I hardly dared to get my hopes up; I suppose experience has me conditioned to expect the worst. But apparently he's been reassigned to the Letterman Army Hospital in San Francisco - the very same place where I was stationed before I volunteered to be sent to Korea! Now if only you could get yourself transferred there, too. But of course, I'm being terribly selfish. Those poor boys up at the front need you more than I do._

_Do you realize it's been almost a year since I first arrived at the 4077th? (Of course, it probably will be by the time you get this letter.) In some ways, it feels like an eternity. I was almost a different person back then; I can't help but laugh when I think about that bushy, uncontrollable mane I used to sport. I insisted on calling you "Major" for the longest time, too. Looking back, it seems hard to believe now. It feels like I've known you my whole life._

_I miss you so much, Charles. You're all I think about. God knows there's precious little else to occupy my thoughts with. There's absolutely nothing for me to do here. This blasted leg of mine has made nearly all activity out of the question, and it's driving me mad. I feel utterly useless. I even offered to make dinner last night, but Gloria banished me from the kitchen. I was quietly furious, as you can imagine. She's a terrible cook. And I __really__ wanted salad niçoise._

_I still haven't told Will and Gloria about our relationship. Not just yet. In fact, I'm not so sure if I want them to know. I just know Gloria would tell everyone within a fifteen-mile radius, and I'd just as soon avoid that for the time being. I guess I'm just not ready to deal with the gossip that would inevitably arise from the news of my war-time love affair with a stinking rich surgeon. No doubt all the neighbors would say I'm only interested in you for your money, which is ridiculous. Obviously, it's for your record collection._

_But enough about me. How are you, my love? I hope you're doing well. Speaking of records, have you received that album you were expecting from your sister? I know how much you were looking forward to hearing "Kindertotenlieder" again. I'm sorry I never took to Mahler the way you'd hoped I would. I promise I'll try to give him another chance... someday. Don't rush me, though._

_By the way, I realize there's probably little point in my saying this, because your family could easily mail you anything you could possibly need, but if there's anything you would like me to send you, please don't hesitate to ask. I'd stuff myself in a crate, if I could, but somehow I don't think Colonel Potter would be too pleased to see me. Have I mentioned I miss you like crazy?_

_How is everyone over there? Loony as ever, I assume? After all, there's never a dull moment at the 4077th. I know this is an unrealistic request, but please try not to run yourself ragged. Get plenty of rest whenever you can. And take care of yourself. You wouldn't want me worrying about you, would you?_

_Oh, who am I kidding? I won't stop worrying about you until I'm holding you in my arms again. But please take care, and the next time you feel overwhelmed, and that it's all too much to bear, just remember this: I love you, Charles Emerson Winchester. I love you, I love you, I __love__ you._

_I don't want to stop writing, but it looks as though I'm running out of ink as well as paper. Please say hello to Max, Hawkeye, B.J., Kellye, Father Mulcahy, and the rest of the kids for me. I'll write again soon. I promise._

_All my love,_

_Your Malone_

As Charles read the last five words over and over, he found his vision beginning to grow slightly blurry. Carefully folding the letter and returning it to its envelope, he slid open his desk drawer and tucked it inside, next to several others like it. For a long moment, he gazed at the portrait on his desk, positioned between his books and his record player.

Then he turned in his chair and found Pierce and Hunnicutt grinning knowingly at him.

Charles shot them a peevish glare. "Wasn't there some asinine game you two were playing?" he asked dryly.

"You're absolutely right, Chuck," said Pierce. "Where were we?"

"Bigger than a breadbox, walks on two legs, and flies," supplied Hunnicutt.

The chief surgeon abruptly stood up, with the air of a man who has suddenly experienced an epiphany. "I've got it," he announced in a dramatic tone. "A big red bird with fuzzy pink feet."

"Charles?"

"It's a swan, you twit."

Pierce snapped his fingers. "Damn, so close."

Rolling his eyes, Charles kicked off his boots and stretched himself out on his cot, quickly beginning to succumb to his exhaustion. "By the way, gentlemen," he said, lacing his fingers across his stomach, "before I forget... Malone sends her greetings."

"Hiya, Red," Hunnicutt said with a yawn.

"Hey, kid." Pierce flopped down on his own bunk, not even bothering to remove his own filthy boots. "How's she doing, Charles?"

"As well as can be expected," he replied, no longer resisting the urge to close his eyes. "Naturally, she is frustrated by her involuntary idleness. Fortunately, however, her brother will soon be joining her. That should lift her spirits considerably."

"Mmm," Hunnicutt mumbled sleepily. "That's great news."

"I'll bet she misses you," Pierce said quietly.

Charles was suddenly obliged to swallow a particularly bothersome lump which had formed in his throat. "She did mention something to that effect," he murmured.

"When you write her back," said Hunnicutt, "make sure to tell her hi for us."

A small smile tugged at Charles's lips, and was quickly curbed. "Only if you behave," he said sternly.

"Thanks, Dad," said Pierce.

* * *

_September 8, 1952_

Nellie Malone's leg itched.

Or at least, she thought it did. It was difficult to tell whether the discomfort she was experiencing was real, and she was regaining sensation in her leg, or if it was just a manifestation of phantom limb syndrome. She had been around enough amputees and paralysis patients during her career as a nurse to know that itchiness was a fairly common symptom of the malady.

Either way, it was damned annoying. And there would be no way of knowing until she got her cast removed, which wouldn't be for another month. While Nellie was a patient woman, there was only so much she could endure. Between being forced into inactivity and living in an unbearably hot climate with her unbearably vapid aunt, she felt like she was in very real danger of losing her mind.

Thankfully, she would not have to endure it much longer. In a few days she would be joining Danny in San Francisco, at the Letterman Army Hospital. There were a handful of buildings in the large complex which had been converted into apartments for the families of officers. Either there was someone among the higher brass with a modicum of understanding and compassion, or all of Father Mulcahy's prayers had done the trick, because the hospital had agreed to allow the Malone siblings to occupy one of the apartments. Nellie wouldn't have been surprised if Colonel Potter hadn't had a hand in things, as well; as a veteran of three wars, he was exceptionally adept at cutting through red tape. He wasn't bad at laying on the guilt, either.

Charles would be pleased to find out that she would once again be surrounded by doctors and nurses. The man, it seemed, had a protective streak as wide as Boston Harbor. While he hadn't said it in so many words, he had essentially forbidden her from exerting herself in any way, shape, or form until she had fully recovered from her injury. As a matter of fact, he had been quite the pill. In reply to all of her letters bemoaning her current state of physical and mental stagnation, he had told her not to expect any sympathy from him. At first, she had been hurt and offended by his apparent callousness. But then he had gone on to explain that while she had been in Korea, he had worried about her constantly. Every time a sniper strayed into the camp, or the sound of the shelling got a little too close for comfort, Charles had feared for her safety above all else. Her welfare was of the utmost importance to him, and it was an immeasurable relief to know that she was safe. Even if she was bored out of her skull.

Nellie had stopped complaining after that.

With a sigh, she picked up a book from her bedside table and attempted to distract herself by reading. However, the heat made it impossible to focus, and she soon gave up and fell to staring out the window. While others might have considered it a paradise, she wouldn't be sorry to leave Malibu. For one thing, her living quarters consisted of the screened-in back porch of her uncle's bungalow. There was a spare bedroom on the second floor, but of course Nellie was in no condition to haul herself up and down the stairs every day. The porch was not unpleasant; there was a nice breeze, and she could hear the ocean on quiet nights. Unfortunately, quiet nights were few and far between. The neighbors were fond of throwing parties which would put the 4077th to shame. And there was absolutely zero privacy.

Naturally, Charles did not think much of her current digs. _Good heavens, Malone,_ he'd written when he had learned where she was spending her recuperation, _that is simply inexcusable. While they're at it, why don't your relations simply pitch a pup tent in the back yard and leave you with a pen knife and a can of beans?_

Ah, well. It wasn't all bad. At least it didn't reek of cats, like the rest of the house. The little monsters. She couldn't help it; she'd always been a dog person.

With a yawn, she stretched her arms above her head. Then the door to the porch suddenly swung open, startling her. Her uncle Will stepped outside, holding a plate of sandwich triangles in one hand and a carafe of lemonade in the other. William Malone was quite a few years older than her father would have been if he was still alive, and he moved slowly due to his rheumatism. But he always seemed to be in a good mood, and Nellie was glad for that. He may have been married to a woman who had cotton candy for brains, but at least he was happily married.

She smiled up at him as he set the plate and pitcher on her bedside table. "Thanks, Uncle," she said. "No tours today?" Will owned a little charter boat which he used to take small groups out on whale watching tours.

He shook his head. "The waves are a little too choppy for my liking. I thought we could have lunch together instead." He poured the lemonade into a pair of tumblers from the nearby sideboard. "I know it's not exactly high tea at the Savoy, but I'm afraid we're fresh out of scones and clotted cream."

"As long as those sandwiches don't contain any Spam, I am infinitely obliged to you," she replied, taking the proffered glass. As he eased himself carefully into the chair next to her bed, she took a sip. "Where's Aunt Gloria?"

"She went down to the pier with her friends." He shrugged good-naturedly. "It's good for her to get out once in a while with the girls. God knows I wouldn't be able to keep up with her."

Nellie resisted the urge to roll her eyes; it was a known fact that her aunt went out with her friends every single weekend. But she wasn't about to point it out.

Instead she mustered a wry grin. "Yeah, neither would I," she said.

With a chuckle, Will reached out and tousled her hair affectionately, a gesture which unavoidably made her think of Hawkeye and B.J. All of a sudden she felt a pang as she was reminded of her _other_ family. She hoped they were all doing well.

"Mmm." Her uncle paused to swallow a bite of his sandwich. "Almost forgot. A letter came for you today. With a Korean postmark."

Nellie sat up quickly. "Really? Who's it from? Danny?"

"Nope." He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out an envelope with a very familiar family crest embossed on its flap. "It's from a... Charles Emerson Winchester the—"

Eagerly, she plucked the letter from his fingers, causing him to blink in surprise. "Third," he said after a moment.

She smiled fondly as she gazed down at the elegant scrawl on the back of the envelope. At length Will cleared his throat. "I seem to recall you've been getting a lot of letters from that fellow," he observed. "Mind if I ask who he is, Ginger?"

Nellie tried to give a casual shrug, and failed. "Just... a kindred spirit I met during my time there," she said off-hand.

"Really?"

At his skeptical look, she felt her cheeks grown warm, and not from the heat. "Yes?" Will raised his eyebrows. "Okay, no," she admitted sheepishly, tracing the handwriting on the envelope with her finger. "I mean, he is. But he's also... a lot more than that."

Her uncle smiled knowingly. "I suspected as much," he said, before taking another bite of his sandwich. "Well, I won't pry."

Now it was Nellie's turn to be surprised. "You won't?" she blurted.

He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not your father, Nellie," he said. "Your relationships are none of my business. Besides, you're a mature, responsible, level-headed young woman. Whoever this Winchester guy is, I know you wouldn't be so happy to get his letters if he wasn't somebody special." She smiled, and he patted her knee. "Whenever you want to talk, I'm here."

"I know," she said gratefully. "Thank you, Uncle."

He stood up, taking his glass with him. "I'll let you read that in peace," he told her. "Maybe tonight I'll take you and the little missus to the drive-in."

"Sounds good," she replied. "Oh, Uncle?" He paused in the doorway. "You're not going to tell Aunt Gloria about Charles, are you?"

"Not unless you want everyone from the postman to the paperboy to know."

Nellie chuckled. Her uncle went back into the house, and she settled back against her pillows and tore open the letter. And then, as she read over the first paraghraph, she burst out laughing.

_My Darling Malone,_

_Your latest letter could not have come at a more perfect time. We were recently given the order to "bug out", as it is so charmingly called, and the entire camp was forced to pull up its tent stakes and relocate to a pestilent hell-hole which gave new meaning to the word "swamp". Needless to say, when we finally returned to our old stomping grounds and found the mail waiting for us, I tore into your letter with all the enthusiasm of, as your beloved Wodehouse would say, "a camel making for an oasis after a hard day at the office."_

_Your enclosed photograph was very well received, to say the least. Good God, Malone. You are even more bewitching than I remember. Although am I mistaken, or have you acquired more freckles since I saw you last? Not that I mind; they are most becoming. Take care you don't spend too much time in the California sun. I know how much it disagrees with my little rain goddess._

_I also got a letter from my mother. When I wrote to my parents about you, I expected a reply almost immediately, and when I didn't receive one, I must confess I experienced a twinge of trepidation. Rest assured, Malone, that regardless of what my parents might say or think, I have no regrets. Whatever happens, you are my future. However, their reaction only served to show me that I know nothing whatever about my own flesh and blood. Here is a portion of my mother's letter, copied verbatim:_

_"As surprised as we all were to learn of your attachment to this young lady, we were far more surprised that you did not tell us much sooner. To be frank, it saddens us that you feel you could not be honest with us about a subject which is clearly very important to you. While it is true that in the past, we have been somewhat unyielding in matters of breeding and lineage, it is also undeniably true that times are changing. Your father and I can hardly expect either you or your sister to cling to such old-fashioned notions in this day and age. We simply want you to be happy, my dear boy. That is all we have ever wanted for you."_

_She goes on to say that you sound perfectly lovely, if my description of you is any indication, and that they are anxious to meet you as soon as possible. Honoria is positively giddy over the whole thing, and she has demanded that, with your permission, I give her your new address in San Francisco, so that she may write to you. I am at a loss, as you can imagine. I had expected the worst, and instead I've received my family's blessing and support. A pretty underhanded trick, if I do say so myself._

_Things have been fairly uneventful here. Pierce and Hunnicutt are, as usual, trying their very best to drive me to commit double homicide. Last week they pilfered my red pillow and replaced the goose-down feathers with wet rice. I tried to remain above it all, but alas, the desire for retribution was too great. I fear it will take them several days to ascertain where I've hidden their still. Something tells me they won't think to look in Sophie's stable._

_And now we arrive, as always, at the soppy, sentimental portion of my letter. God, how I miss you, Malone. Father Mulcahy has been good enough to learn to play Go, and he is a fair opponent, but it's not the same. I miss seeing that devious little smile of yours when I look across the board. If only I didn't have such perfect recall. If only the memory of you — the intoxicating scent of your hair, the sweet taste of your lips, the velvety softness of your skin — if only they did not persist in filling my thoughts constantly. Do you have a tape recorder? Perhaps you would be good enough to send your next letter in audio format. I'd love to hear your voice. I __need__ to hear your voice._

_Please give my regards to your brother when you see him. I know you find it distasteful, but do try to rest. As a personal favor to me, your unbearably overprotective physician._

_I love you, my angel._

_Yours always,_

_Charles_

Taking a rather unsteady breath, Nellie lowered the letter into her lap. Her pulse was racing, and the temperature in the enclosed porch felt like it had suddenly increased by ten degrees.

_Goodness,_ she thought, fanning herself with the letter. _He's not making this easy._

Though it was somewhat gratifying to know that Charles was feeling the agony of their separation as acutely as she was, she almost wished he wouldn't be quite so verbose about it. _Almost._

Reaching under her pillow, she pulled out her own small photograph of Charles, dressed in his Class A uniform, looking as dignified and endearingly stuffy as ever. With a wistful sigh, she gazed at it for a long moment, unaware that she was biting her lip.

Then she looked up and found one of Gloria's many cats perched at the end of her bed, staring at her through slitted eyelids.

"What are you looking at?" she asked it dryly. In response, it jumped into her lap, curling up into a ball right on top of Charles's letter. She rolled her eyes and began scratching behind its ears. "Horrid beast," she said with a wry smile.

The cat purred smugly.

* * *

_November 4, 1952_

There was something about the newest nurse that Kellye didn't like.

She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was that bothered her about Julia DeMarco. She seemed nice enough, and she was good at her job. She never showed up late for her shifts, or failed to follow directions. And she was steady as a rock in surgery. All in all, she was a great nurse.

There was no logical reason for Kellye to feel the way she did about her. She told herself that it was simply because Nurse DeMarco was Nellie Malone's replacement, and she was so different from her friend. While Nellie was a quiet and retiring sort, DeMarco was bubbly and vivacious and outgoing. Nellie had been content to stay in of an evening and read or play cards, but DeMarco was always trying to get Kellye and the other nurses to go to Rosie's or the Officers' Club. Even in physical appearance, they were polar opposites — where Nellie was small and slim and almost waif-like, her replacement was a tall, dark-haired, statuesque beauty.

That had to be it. It was the only explanation. Kellye missed her friend, and she resented this perfectly pleasant, inoffensive young woman because she was nothing like her predecessor. She just needed to grow up.

That was why she had agreed to go with DeMarco to the Officers' Club after their shift in Post-Op had ended. She didn't particularly feel like going, but she knew she had to make an effort to be more accepting. Besides, she'd made the foolish mistake of boasting about how good her Lindy Hop was getting, and DeMarco was now insisting that she prove it.

As they stepped out of the Post-Op Ward and into the compound, DeMarco shivered, tugging her jacket closer around her willowy frame. "Man alive, it's freezing," she muttered, blowing puffs of steam into the air as she spoke. "We never get cold snaps like this in Tampa. Of course," she added, "we get hurricanes and alligators instead. I still can't decide if this is a fair trade-off."

"This isn't even the worst of it," Kellye told her. "Just wait until January, when the temperature plummets to fifteen degrees, and there's no fuel for the heaters because it's been stolen and sold on the black market."

"Tell me more," the other nurse said dryly. "This is sounding better all the time." Kellye chuckled. "How long have you been here, again? Two years?"

"Almost two and a half."

DeMarco screwed up her pretty features. "Yuck," she said eloquently.

Kellye couldn't agree more.

"Hey, did you hear the news?" DeMarco went on, rubbing her hands together. "Klinger heard it on the radio. Eisenhower was elected President today. Pretty strange to think about, isn't it? While we were clear on the other side of the world, our own country got a new leader. And I plumb forgot to vote."

It hadn't even occurred to Kellye. "Can you vote if you're out of the country?" she asked.

"You have to request an absentee ballot, I think." DeMarco shrugged. "Oh, well. Too late now, I guess."

Kellye wasn't much bothered by her unpatriotic _faux pas_. It all seemed too far away to think about.

They arrived at the Officers' Club, and Kellye could hear music over the hum of conversation. As they ducked inside, she was somewhat surprised to find Major Winchester sitting stiffly at the piano. He was playing some slow classical piece, staring at the sheet music with intense concentration. Who the composer was, she had no idea; she'd never been a huge fan of that stuff. She hadn't known that the major could play. She wondered if Nellie knew.

She started toward her favorite table, but stopped when she realized DeMarco wasn't following her. She was watching Winchester with interest, as if seeing him for the first time. Bemused, Kellye stood beside her and waited as he continued playing.

When the song ended, DeMarco began clapping, and Kellye belatedly followed suit. "_Bravo_, Major!" the taller nurse exclaimed. "That was wonderful!"

Winchester, who had started slightly at the unexpected sound of applause, twisted around on the piano bench, a pained look on his face. "Please, save your standing ovations, ladies," he replied. "That was positively dreadful. I've no doubt that Frédéric Chopin is spinning in his grave as we speak."

"Oh, not at all," DeMarco persisted, flashing him a blinding smile. "You played that beautifully."

The surgeon smiled wanly in return. "You're too kind, Lieutenant. However, I'm afraid I inherited none of my mother's musical talent. I can play the notes, but alas, I cannot coax anything resembling music out of this tired old piano."

Kellye was no expert, but if asked, she would have been forced to agree. There was nothing technically wrong with the major's playing, but there was definitely something lacking. It seemed mechanical, lifeless.

DeMarco was apparently of another opinion. "We'll agree to disagree, then," she said.

As Winchester stood, Kellye noticed for the first time how pale and careworn he looked. Her nurse training kicked in, and she was about to ask him if he was feeling all right, when DeMarco spoke again: "Would you like to join us for a drink, Major?"

He shook his head, a weary gesture. "Thank you, no," he demurred graciously. "I believe I shall retire. Enjoy your evening, ladies."

They bade him good night, and Kellye watched him leave, frowning at him in concern. Then she turned to DeMarco, who was also watching him leave with a very different sort of expression. Immediately, alarm bells started going off in Kellye's head.

"My," DeMarco murmured appreciatively. "What a gentleman. Not at _all_ like Captain Pierce." She wrinkled her nose to illustrate her distaste for the 4077th's chief surgeon, causing Kellye to bristle. She knew Hawkeye was an incurable rake, but that didn't mean she liked anyone else pointing it out.

"Hawkeye's not so bad," she protested lightly. "He's really very sweet, once you get past the flirting and the wisecracks and the Groucho Marx obsession."

"Oh, I know," DeMarco said carelessly. "Pierce is all right. I just prefer men who are a little more sophisticated. A little more genteel. A little more like..." She suddenly grinned wolfishly. "Charles."

"Well, you can forget it," Kellye told her firmly. "_Major Winchester_ is off-limits."

Her grin faded. "Why? Is he married?"

"No, but..."

"But he's got a girl back home?" DeMarco rolled her eyes. "Big deal. So does every other officer and G.I. in Korea. That doesn't stop them from having a bit of fun."

Burning with indignation, Kellye drew herself up to her full, commanding height of five feet three inches and fixed DeMarco with her most intimidating glare. "His 'girl back home' just happens to be the nurse you replaced," she snapped. "And if you think you can compete with her, you're out of your mind."

With that she stormed out of the Officers' Club, leaving DeMarco to stare after her with her mouth agape like a fish.

_Boy,_ she thought furiously, stalking across the dark compound. _The nerve of that little home-wrecker._ Thinking she could steal the major right from under Nellie's nose! Well, she knew exactly what to do about that: she'd tell Winchester himself. After all, forewarned was forearmed. Or was it the other way around?

As she approached the Swamp, however, she abruptly stopped in her tracks. She could almost swear she had just heard Nellie's low, pleasant voice. Was she hearing things? Had this place finally driven her crazy?

Tentatively, she rapped on the door with her knuckles. Instantly the sound was silenced. "Major Winchester?" she called, confused. "It's Lieutenant Kellye."

There was a brief pause. "Yes, Lieutenant," came the reply. "Come in."

Kellye pushed the door open and stepped inside, somewhat warily. The Swamp was empty, save for the major; B.J. had the night shift in Post-Op, and Hawkeye was in Seoul. Winchester was seated at his desk, brewing himself a pot of tea. There was no one else here. Unless Nellie was hiding under Winchester's cot.

As she continued to stare dumbly, Winchester turned in his chair and cleared his throat. "Is something the matter, Lieutenant?" he prompted, a single eyebrow arched.

_That's just what I was about to ask you,_ Kellye almost said. "I just wanted to warn you," she said instead. "I think Nurse DeMarco has got you in her cross-hairs. And she strikes me as the persistent type. I told her you were spoken for, and it didn't seem to faze her."

"Indeed," he deadpanned in that dry, disdainful tone he had so effortlessly perfected. "You'll forgive me if I seem rude, Lieutenant, but are you calling my fidelity into question?"

"No," Kellye said quickly, kicking herself mentally. She had almost forgotten how touchy he could be. "Not at all, Major. I mean, I know you'd never... I just... I thought you should know, that's all," she ended lamely.

Evidently she seemed contrite enough, for his gaze softened. "Well," he replied, "you may put your fears to rest. Where overly forward members of the fairer sex are concerned, I do have my defenses. But thank you, all the same."

She exhaled, relieved. "You're welcome, sir."

"Was there anything else?"

"No, that was pretty much it. Except..." She hesitated. "Maybe I'm just losing my marbles, but... did I hear Nellie's voice earlier?"

She fully expected Winchester to recommend an appointment with Dr. Freedman at the earliest opportunity, but he surprised her by nodding. "Yes, I was listening to a tape recording she sent to me. Or rather, listening to it again."

"Oh, of course," said Kellye, feeling stupid. "I'll let you get back to it."

As she moved toward the door, his voice brought her to a halt. "Would you care to listen to it with me?"

She whirled around to stare at him with wide eyes. "Really?" she blurted. "I mean, are you sure it's not too private?"

Winchester smiled ever so slightly. "There's nothing in it that she wouldn't mind anyone else hearing. Besides, I believe her brother was in earshot during most of it."

"Well..." Kellye grinned. "Sure, why not?"

He stood and pulled out his chair, gesturing for her to sit down. "Tea?" he offered.

"Ooh, please."

As she took the proffered seat and watched as Winchester poured out the tea into a pair of delicate china cups, she found herself reevaluating the man for the hundredth time. He was a stodgy, arrogant gas bag; there was no getting around that. She'd even laughed when Miles Sullivan had told her the nickname he had given the major in his head: _Lord Muck_. But in his heart — the only part that really mattered — he was an awfully good man. And she couldn't imagine Nellie being happy with anyone else.

After handing Kellye a cup of steaming tea, he settled on the edge of his cot and pressed a button on his tape recorder, rewinding the tape to the beginning. At the familiar sound of Nellie's low, soothing voice, she began to smile.

_"Hello, my dearest Charles! Happy late Halloween or early Thanksgiving, depending on when you get this! How are you, love? I hope you and the others are doing well at the 4077th. I've got some—"_

"_Hi, Charles!"_ came Danny's voice, interrupting his sister in mid-sentence.

There was an exasperated sigh. _"Danny says hi. Obviously. Would you take a hike? Go to the movies or something. Or better yet, go clean your room. It looks worse than the Swamp."_

Kellye laughed. She looked over at Winchester, who was hiding his smile behind his teacup.

_"Sorry about that. What was I saying? I still feel so strange, talking into a machine. Oh, that's right. I've got some great news! I got my cast taken off yesterday! I wanted to keep it, because of all those sweet messages that everyone wrote on it, but I had no choice but to throw it away. It was unhygienic. And completely disgusting._

_"The bad news is, there doesn't seem to be any improvement as far as the nerve damage. I'm sorry; I know that's probably not what you wanted to hear. But the good news is that the bone has healed quite nicely. And the incision scar doesn't look too horrifying. My muscles, however, are in a pretty sorry state. I'm going to need physical therapy sessions for a while. But at least I can walk without crutches! Some of the staff members here at the Letterman hospital presented me with a very nice cane. The handle is a rabbit's head, to match my necklace._

_"Oh, and they've _finally_ given me something to do! I realize I've been injured, but I've felt like a bit of a freeloader ever since I came back to San Francisco. But either someone took pity on me, or got tired of my whining, because I am now working in the library at the Crissy Annex. Now don't worry, Charles; it's not strenuous work at all. Basically, my job consists of sorting the returned books all day. I give you my solemn word that I'm being very careful not to overexert myself. I know you don't believe me, but that's okay. I forgive you._

_"What else has happened? Oh, I nearly forgot. Your sister Honoria called me. I hadn't gotten a letter from her in a while, and then the phone rang the other day, and it was her. She said the reason my letters hadn't reached her was because she was staying at your town home on Beacon Hill. On a side note: seriously, Charles? You have _two_ houses? You sicken me. But all joking aside, your sister is adorable. I guess it must run in the family._

_"Anyway, I've been extended an invitation to stay at your family estate in the spring. Danny was invited, too, but he's still got two years until his draft is up. I'm... a bit nervous. Okay, _extremely_ nervous. Don't get me wrong; your parents have been perfectly cordial to me. I just... I'm not sure I can face them, unless you're there with me. Does that sound pathetic or what?"_

There was a pause, punctuated by a quiet sniffle. _"I'm sorry, Charles. I just miss you so much, it's ridiculous. But hopefully, the war will be over by then, and we'll be able to go to Boston together. I can't wait to see the Old North Church, and the Longfellow House, and all the other historical sites. The hopeless nerd in me is chomping at the bit._

_"Oh, crumbs, I've got to go. The tape's running out, and I've got some Boston brown bread in the oven. I'm trying to get it just right, but I think I used too much nutmeg last time. Speaking of nuts, try not to kill Hawkeye or B.J. And give my best to everyone else at the 4077th. I love you to pieces, Charles. Don't you forget it."_

There was a click, followed my a hiss as the recording reached its end. Kellye watched as Major Winchester reached out and turned off the tape player. "My sister Honoria rarely uses the telephone," he said quietly, looking down at his hands. "She has a speech impediment, and it's much more severe when she's not able to see the person to whom she is speaking."

Kellye wasn't sure what to say to that, so she simply nodded.

"I never told Malone about Honoria's stutter," he murmured, almost to himself. "But she didn't bring it up. It was as if she hadn't even noticed it."

"Well, of course not," Kellye answered. "Why would she?"

Winchester looked up at her. His blue eyes were slightly moist. Setting her teacup aside, Kellye took a chance and leaned forward, giving his hand a squeeze. "Hang in there, Major," she said kindly.

He took a deep breath, his eyes slipping shut. "I'm trying, Lieutenant," he replied tiredly.

* * *

_December 24, 1952_

Danny Malone crept stealthily among the stacks of books at the Crissy Annex library, crouched down like a lion stalking a gazelle in the tall grass of the African savannah. Suddenly he winced as his foot landed on a creaky floorboard. Fortunately, his quarry didn't seem to notice; her attention was totally absorbed in her current task of restoring books to their proper places on the shelves. Excellent.

With a wicked grin, he tiptoed silently along the aisle, until he was just a few steps away from his prey. And then, in a move that would have made Bela Lugosi proud, he came up behind her and let loose a menacing, inhuman snarl.

He was rewarded with a blood-curdling shriek as Nellie leaped an impressive foot and a half into the air, a book flying out of her hands like a startled bird. She teetered on her unstable legs, and Danny shot out a hand to steady her before she could topple over.

"Sheesh, Nellie, keep it down," he rebuked her in a hushed voice. "We're in a library, for heaven's sake."

Nellie smacked him on the arm. "Danny!" she hissed, after she had recovered her balance. "God... bless a milk cow! You can't go around scaring the daylights out of people in a hospital! Do you want to give someone apoplexy?"

"Oh, you're fine," he said dismissively. He picked up the book she had dropped and held it out to her. She snatched it from his grasp, still glaring at him. "Why aren't you using your cane?"

She glanced over at the polished walking stick, which was leaning against her book cart. "I don't really need it for this type of work," she replied. "Besides, I wasn't counting on my demented brother to spring out of nowhere and attack me."

Ignoring her comment, Danny picked up and the cane and twirled it around in his fingers. "How soon will you be finished here?" he asked. "We're meeting Will and Gloria at the hotel in an hour, and we've still got to change our clothes."

"I'm almost done. You _could_ assist me, if you felt so inclined."

With a grin, Danny set her cane aside and helped put the remaining books back on the shelves. It definitely beat his own job in the laundry department, hauling sheets in and out of the washing machines all day. But he wasn't going to complain. He didn't care if he had to scrub toilets, as long as he could be near Nellie.

After putting the last book away, he held out her cane with much ceremony. "Shall we be off then, sister mine?"

"Do let's," she said primly, causing them both to chuckle.

On the walk back to their little apartment in the building complex reserved for officers' families, Danny cast a glance down at his sister's limping gait and felt a pang. It wasn't fair. She had only just turned twenty-nine, and it was doubtful whether she would ever regain the full use of her left leg. And all because some heartless monster had decided to bomb an orphanage. The thought still made him burn with anger.

They both retreated to their bedrooms to change, and Danny hurriedly threw on his suit and tie before retrieving a long, flat box from under his bed. Tucking it under his arm, he padded down the hall and knocked on his sister's door. "Nell? You decent?"

"Yes, come in."

He found her sitting in front of her vanity mirror, running a comb quickly through her short curls. She'd recently had her hair cut again, to an inch above her shoulders, and it suited her. "What are you wearing to dinner?" he asked her.

Nellie shrugged, unconcerned. "I don't know. Probably my black velvet dress."

"You mean the one Dad bought you on your eighteenth birthday?" Danny made a face. "Isn't that a little frumpy? What about that blue one? The one your nurse friend gave you?"

"That's a cocktail dress, Danny," she said, exasperated. "It's not really appropriate for Christmas Eve dinner at the Fairmont. And before you ask, neither is my kimono."

He sighed. "I guess that just leaves this."

"Leaves what?" She turned around and finally noticed the package under his arm. "What is that?"

"Oh, this?" He gestured toward it nonchalantly. "Just a Christmas present from Charles."

As he had expected, Nellie shot to her feet, grabbing the table for support. "_What?_" she exclaimed. "I thought his presents arrived two weeks ago! Where did that come from?"

"Under my bed," he replied as he set the box down on her own mattress. "He sent it to me for safekeeping, so that it would be a surprise."

His sister gaped at him in indignation. "Why, that little—" she spluttered. "_You_ little—"

"Yeah, yeah, you can chew me out later. Put it on. And don't take forever." He dodged a flying slipper on his way out.

Danny had never liked suits, and after being drafted, he found he liked them even less; they were too similar to a uniform. As he smoothed down his lapels, he found himself wondering who had invented such a hellish piece of attire. To say nothing of neckties. What function did they serve, other than to annoy?

Grumbling under his breath, he fastened his father's cuff links at his wrists. He was about to yell at Nellie to hurry up when she emerged from her bedroom, and his eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

"Holy mackerel, Nellie," he blurted. "You look like a movie star."

In contrast with the full-skirted dresses he was used to seeing on girls these days, the gown Nellie wore was a form-fitting, floor-length creation of silver chiffon, reminiscent of the styles popular in the 1920s and '30s. Embroidered all over it were countless tiny crystals, arranged in a geometric Art Deco design. As she moved, they caught the light and shimmered like a fish's scales. The effect was mesmerizing.

As he continued to stare in disbelief, she smiled weakly, clearly overwhelmed. "It's ridiculous," she said, her voice wavering. "Ridiculous and extravagant and a reckless waste of money. And it's absolutely beautiful."

Danny smiled. "Charles has good taste," he told her. "And I'm not just talking about the dress."

Nellie's eyes began to glisten, threatening to ruin her makeup. "Come on, we don't want to be late," he said, offering her his elbow. "Leave your cane here tonight. You can take my arm instead."

Christmas Eve dinner at the Hotel Fairmont was a swanky affair. Its Grand Ballroom, with its exquisite architecture, polished marble floors, and enormous multiple chandeliers, was bedecked in wreaths and garlands and other yuletide paraphernalia. All in attendance were dressed like they were going to the Hollywood premiere of some long-awaited film. Even Aunt Gloria, who had very strange ideas about fashion, was looking surprisingly elegant.

Predictably, she had a heart attack over Nellie's expensive new gown. And she wasn't the only one, either. None of Danny's discouraging glares seemed to have any effect on the multitude of men who had their eye on his sister. He doubted that was what Charles had had in mind when he picked it out.

Afterward, the four of them returned to Danny and Nellie's little apartment. It was tradition in the Malone family to open presents when the clock struck precisely midnight on December twenty-fifth. Seated around the scraggly Christmas tree, they ate Toll House cookies and Boston brown bread while they each took turns tearing packages and parcels apart. Danny managed to collect quite an impressive haul: a fishing pole with a set of lures, several books, an argyle sweater from Nellie, and to his surprise, a sizeable stack of classical records from Charles to add to his collection, including Sarasate's _Zigeunerweisen_, performed by the composer himself.

The major's gifts to Nellie were similarly thoughtful and reflected his understated good taste, as well as his typical disregard to cost. In addition to the dress, there was also a monogrammed fountain pen, a box of expensive handmade chocolates, and a beautiful green cashmere scarf. As each package was opened, Gloria's eyes grew wider and wider with unconcealed envy.

"That man is going to spoil you rotten," was her expert prognosis.

"Said the most spoiled woman on the west coast," was Uncle Will's reply, eliciting laughter from everyone.

Charles's last gift, bound in sumptuous red leather, was a collection of poems by the pre-Raphaelite writer and artist, Dante Gabriel Rosetti. As she read the hand-written inscription on the flyleaf, Nellie's emotional state, which had been growing increasingly fragile as the evening wore on, seemed to take a turn for the worse.

Quickly, Danny called attention to the lateness of the hour, and Will and Gloria agreed that it was time for them to return to their hotel. Sensing her opportunity to make a hasty retreat, Nellie bade everyone a good night and vanished into her room with a speed one would hardly ascribe to a girl with a bum leg. After showing his aunt and uncle to the door, Danny turned and hurried back down the hall.

"Nell?" he called softly. "Are you all right?"

There was no answer. Taking a deep breath, he pushed her door open and stepped inside. He found Nellie hunched over on the edge of her bed in her shimmering silver gown, the book of poems clutched in her hands. She was sobbing quietly.

"Oh, Ginger." He never could bear to see his sister cry. She had always been the one he sought out for comfort when he was upset.

He sat down beside her and wrapped a skinny arm around her shoulders. "Hey, come on," he said gently. "Don't cry. It's Christmas. People are supposed to be happy this time of year."

Wordlessly, she passed him the book, her finger holding it open to the flyleaf. Danny took it from her and read the inscription, written in Charles's precise hand:

_To My Darling Girl —_

_By the time you receive this, it will be exactly a year to the day since the first time I held you in my arms. I think, even then, I knew in my heart that I never wanted to let you go. Though the distance between us seems infinite, my love, be assured that until I can hold you once again,_

_My soul this hour has drawn your soul  
__A little nearer yet._

As Danny lowered the book into his lap, somewhat stunned at the revelation that Charles Winchester was secretly a hopeless romantic, Nellie gave a stifled sob and buried her face in his suit jacket. Not knowing what else to do, he simply stroked her hair soothingly.

"I miss him so much," she confessed, sounding ashamed. "I've tried to hide it. It's not like me at all. I'm not the kind of girl who just goes to pieces over some man."

"He's not just 'some man'," he told her. "You've gone from seeing him every single day for almost a year, to not seeing him in months. It's no wonder you miss him."

She shook her head against him. "It's not just that," she said brokenly. "I worry about him all the time. Sometimes I worry so much that it keeps me awake at night. The 4077th is just so close to the front. And the surgeons are always getting sent to Battalion Aid, and that place is a nightmare." A tear rolled down her cheek, leaving a mascara trail. "If something happened to him... I don't know what I would do."

Danny sighed to himself. All told, he wasn't sure what he would do, either. Nellie had experienced more than her share of grief and loss in her life already.

"I can't tell you that nothing will happen to him," he said quietly, his throat tight. "I didn't think anything would happen to you at an Army hospital, and you were nearly killed. At an orphanage, for God's sake." Nellie sniffed, fingering the sleeve of his jacket. "All I can tell you is that you've got to have faith that you'll see him again."

"And do what in the meantime?" she asked bitterly. "My nursing days are over. And being a nurse is all I've ever known. I feel utterly lost. I have no idea what to do."

_Oh, Nell..._ He took her small hand in his and squeezed it. "Listen," he said after a moment's hesitation. "I wasn't going to tell you this, but... I was in the mess hall the other day, and I overheard one of the doctors in Radiology talking. He's retiring and moving to Pensacola. He's selling his house, Nell."

She shrugged indifferently. "So?"

"So let me finish, will you?" She huffed, but allowed him to continue. "It's a little Victorian in Lower Pacific Heights. It's kind of a fixer-upper, but he's selling it for next to nothing. I was thinking... What if we bought it? If _you_ bought it, I mean. With some of the money from Dad's trust fund."

Nellie had grown very still. "We could fix it up together," he went on. "It doesn't need much. New wallpaper, a fresh layer of paint. I could come on the weekends and help out. You could even convert the first floor into a little shop. A bookstore or a café, whatever you want. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

She was quiet for some seconds. "It does, actually," she said in a low voice. Then she shook her head. "But what happens when Charles comes home from Korea? He wants both of us to go back to Boston with him."

"Then you can sell the house. I'm certain you could sell it for a lot more than what Dr. Brookes is asking for it." He gave her hand another squeeze. "Charles will probably be impressed that you've become such a savvy businesswoman."

A laugh escaped her, against her will. She wiped the tear tracks from her face and sat up straight. "Well..." A tiny, crooked smile touched her lips. "Does this Dr. Brookes have any photographs?"

Danny smiled. "_Heaps_ of them."

* * *

_January 29, 1953_

By the dim light of the single lamp in the company clerk's office, Charles sat at the disorganized desk with the telephone receiver tucked between his chin and shoulder, reading Malone's latest letter for perhaps the thousandth time. No matter how many times he stared at the words, they still refused to make even the slightest bit of sense. Had she lost her mind?

_A house._ What on earth had possessed Malone buy a house? Didn't she know that her time in California depended entirely upon how long he was destined to be banished to this canvas sanatorium? The very moment he stepped off the plane in San Francisco, he planned to take the first taxi to her door, scoop her up, and whisk her away to Boston before she could blink. It was a simple plan. Why had she felt the need to complicate it with real estate?

And just where in the hell had she gotten the money?

If that was not enough, the operator was apparently deriving keen pleasure from keeping him on hold for an eternity. He very nearly let out a growl, before remembering that Klinger was asleep in the corner. At first the corporal — _sergeant_, he reminded himself — had been curious as to why Charles had suddenly felt the need to call Malone in the middle of the night, but exhaustion had soon overtaken him, and he'd crawled back into his bunk and promptly drifted off.

It was just as well. Klinger would not have likely approved of what he had to say to Malone.

Finally, the sadistic operator told him she was patching him through to San Francisco. Charles waited impatiently, his fingers drumming on the desk.

"Hello?"

At the sound of her voice, he abruptly forgot why he was angry with her. "Malone," he said warmly.

There was a sharp intake of breath. "_Charles?_ Is that you?"

"Yes, darling, it's me," he replied.

"What time is it there? It must be..." There was a short pause as she calculated the time difference. "Close to one in the morning. Is everything all right? Are _you_ all right?"

Charles smiled, touched at the worry in her tone. "Yes, Malone, I am perfectly all right. Things are as close to normal as one would expect in this place."

"Oh, good," she said, relieved. "God, it's wonderful to hear your voice. Not that I don't love listening to the tapes you send me, but—"

"But it's not quite the same, is it?" he finished quietly.

"No," she agreed.

His eyes slid shut as he savored the soft, wistful sigh she breathed into his ear. "I miss you so terribly, love," she murmured.

He felt a stabbing pain that went straight to his heart. "As do I," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. He cleared his throat, trying to remember why he had called her in the first place. _Ah, yes._ "Malone," he began.

"Yes, Charles?"

He tried to choose his words very carefully. "As pleased as I was to receive your latest letter, there was something in it which... has me rather puzzled."

"Oh? _Oh._" There was a short silence. "You mean the part where I bought a house?"

"Well, since you bring it up..."

"I know, I should have told you sooner," she said, abashed.

"You should have told me _before_ making such an important purchase," he snapped irritably.

There was another, longer silence, and Charles regretted his harsh words. "Malone, I'm sorry," he told her softly.

"No, I'm sorry. You're right; I shouldn't have kept it from you." She sighed. "I don't know how it happened. One minute Danny was telling me that one of the doctors at the Letterman hospital was selling his house, and the next minute I was looking at pictures of this _adorable_ Victorian on Pine Street, and before I knew it, I was signing the title deed. And then suddenly it was mine."

"But why?" Charles couldn't help asking. "Why would you buy a house in San Francisco? You know I want you and Daniel to come with me to Boston."

"I know, I know!" Malone blew out an exasperated breath. "Look, Charles," she said in a low voice. "It was Christmas. I was absolutely miserable without you. I don't think I've ever been so depressed in all my life."

Charles felt another pang. "Darling, I—"

"No, please. Let me finish." He fell silent, and she continued. "I didn't know what to do. I couldn't be a nurse anymore, not with my leg. And shoving books onto shelves all day was not my idea of a fulfilling vocation. And then Danny told me about this house. And I started thinking about what I could do with it." He could almost hear the smile in her voice as she spoke. "I could turn it into a little dining hall. I'd serve two meals a day — nothing fancy, just good, simple meals — and I'd charge a dollar and a quarter. Anyone who could pay would be welcome to do so, and if they couldn't... then they could wash dishes instead. No one would be turned away, because no one deserves to go hungry."

As Charles listened to her proposal, his eyes began to sting with unshed tears. "I think that is a splendid idea," he said, after he had mastered his emotions. "But, dearest, wherever did you get the money for all this? Forgive me for being blunt, but you've never given me the impression that you were particularly well-to-do."

"No," she answered slowly. "No, I haven't, have I?"

She sounded inexplicably evasive. "Why did you not tell me you were wealthy?" he asked her.

"I'm not wealthy," she countered. "I'm... comfortably well-off."

"Malone..."

"Charles, I'd really rather not talk about this."

He was more hurt by her refusal to be honest with him than he would have expected. "My dear Malone," he said quietly, "you told me once that I could always confide in you, about anything. Please, allow me to extend the same courtesy to you."

Malone was silent for a long time, and he prayed that the telephone connection hadn't been lost. Finally she began to speak.

"When I was fifteen, my father was in an accident. At the time, he was working in a paper mill in Portland. His job was to clean out the pulp storage tanks. One day, there was a gas leak. The machinery had been poorly maintained, and the mill didn't provide any safety equipment for its workers. My father and several others were exposed to hydrogen sulfide gas. They were all rushed to the hospital, where they were diagnosed with toxic encephalopathy.

"There was an immediate investigation into the mill's failure to meet minimum safety codes, and the owners were forced to pay reparations to the workers involved in the accident, which ultimately put the company out of business. But the damage was already done."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "I admit that not much is understood about multiple sclerosis, or about what causes it, but I do know that my father was fine before the accident. That's when his health problems started. Failing memory, decreased motor functions, difficulty swallowing. And it just kept getting worse." Her voice was growing increasingly unsteady. "I tried to help him. That's why I became a nurse. But I couldn't save him. There was nothing I could do."

_Oh, my poor girl,_ Charles almost said. _What a life you've led._ But something told him that what she needed was not sympathy, but a listening ear.

Malone cleared her throat and continued, sounding more composed. "Anyway, the money that wasn't spent on hospital bills and nursing school was put aside in a trust fund for Danny and myself. When I turned twenty-five, I was allowed to do whatever I wanted with it."

"And you've never used it until now?" asked Charles.

"I've never had occasion to use it," she answered. "After I joined the Army Nurse Corps, room and board were always included. Besides, I... I don't like being reminded of where the money came from."

"No, no, I quite understand," he said.

"I've never told anyone this before," she admitted softly.

Charles smiled despite himself. "I am glad you told me," he replied.

"Charles?"

"Yes, Malone."

"What if the war goes on for another year?"

"Then I shall shoot myself in the foot," he said resolutely.

She laughed, and his heart soared at the sound. "I'd advise against it," she told him dryly. "Being a cripple isn't all it's cracked up to be."

Charles winced. "Forgive me, Malone, I didn't mean—"

"I know," she said fondly. "I love you, Charles."

For a moment, he found it difficult to speak. "I love you," he murmured huskily. "My sweet girl."

From his sagging bunk in the corner of the office, Klinger suddenly stirred. "What about me?" he mumbled groggily.

Charles sighed. "Go back to sleep, Klinger," he said wearily.

* * *

A/N: Despite my best intentions, this chapter turned out sad. But don't worry, the next chapter will be much better. In the words of the adorable Young Hi from the Season One episode "The Moose", "You'll be happy like hell!"

Three things: Firstly, the idea of a community dining hall is not an uncommon one. My mother has fond memories of a boarding house where she used to have lunch as a teenager in Savannah, Georgia, called Mrs. Wilkes's Dining Room. It's still in operation today.

Secondly, if you had trouble picturing Nellie's silver dress, I had a little help. Do a Google search for "Monique Lhuillier Art Deco gown" to see the inspiration for it. I WANT THAT DRESS.

Thirdly, if you've never read the poetry of Dante Gabriel Rosetti, I am sad for you. Go read it immediately. But please review first. Thanks very much.

- Octopus


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